


Queen

by Antioch, Purplepoctopus



Category: Worm - Wildbow
Genre: Gen, Superpowers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-10-13
Packaged: 2018-05-22 08:29:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 47,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6072208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antioch/pseuds/Antioch, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Purplepoctopus/pseuds/Purplepoctopus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Teenaged addict Imogen Marshall is busted for possession, triggering after she's sent to a wilderness rehabilitation program. Life only gets worse from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dayton

The bumping music was hurting Imogen Marshall’s head as she ducked into the upstairs bathroom, looking for just a moment of peace on her sixteenth birthday. The door was vibrating in its hinges from all the noise and _dammit_ if it wasn’t irritating as fuck. The girl locked the door and stood in front of the mirror, taking a moment to survey her appearance. There were dark, heavy circles under her eyes, showing through in patches underneath the layers of makeup that had been partially sweated away in the hustle and bustle downstairs.

Her hands were shaking as she walked over to the shower, an all too familiar feeling as of late. She managed to get the water turned on, blasting at full heat with the fan on. Once there was a sufficient cloud of vapor in the room, Imogen retrieved a lighter from the bosom of her extravagant party dress. The lighter’s acrylic casing clinked against the granite countertop in the bathroom, placed down for a moment while the girl swept her hand in the guts of the undersink area. She soon found her prize: a beat up pack of cigarettes. Imogen tapped one out of the box and placed it between her lips, hands still shaking.

Relief came when she lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply, smoke swirling up with the steam from the shower to hide her evidence. The nicotine was a poor substitute for her true love, but it would have to do for the moment. At least now it didn’t feel like her skin was crawling.

Imogen was snapped out of her haze by a knock on the door, heard only because the music downstairs had ceased. _Shit_. She stamped out her cigarette in the sink, tossed it into the toilet and flushed. She was about to open the door before she remembered that the shower was still running, and leapt to turn that off while the knocks grew quicker. Once the water was off, Imogen straightened her dress and opened the door. She was expecting to see her mother standing there, looking for her, but it wasn’t.

“Hey, Squirt,” the boy said, his head brushing only a few inches under the top of the door frame. Besides being tall, he had messily styled, short black hair. His eyes were rimmed with some sort of black makeup, which only accentuated the bloodshot look of them. He was wearing a pair of black slacks, a matching Hot Topic Boyband Bullshit waistcoat, and a white button-down shirt with the top few buttons undone. Imogen cracked a smile at the boy and crossed her arms over her chest.

“Hey, Gigantor. Got my present?” She asked, holding her hand out to the boy. He rolled his eyes, then fished around in his breast pocket before pulling out a small bag of white powder. Imogen watched with over-eager, glazed over eyes as he dangled the package just above her head. She went to grab it, but the boy pulled it just out of her reach. He laughed as she jumped a few times trying to retrieve it, until she resorted to kicking him in the shins.

“Shit! Genny, what the fuck?” he yelped. His hands flew to the sore spot and the bag fell on the cold tile beneath them. Imogen ducked down quick to get her prize, a beaming grin on her face.

“Don’t fuck with me, Jeremy. It’s my _birthday_.” She said as she poured a line of the powder on the countertop. Jeremy was still tending to his leg, giving her an ample opportunity to pluck his wallet from his back pocket. From it, she retrieved a crisp bill and began rolling it into a makeshift straw. She then tossed the wallet at her friend, who promptly caught it.

“Jesus. Save some for me, Gen.” Jeremy said while standing upright. “That’s like half your weight in coke.” She rolled her eyes at him and snorted the line. A wave of euphoria immediately crashed down over her - true relief.

“At least I know how to handle it. _Shit_ that was nice.” Imogen began pouring out another line, then handed the bag and the dollar straw back to Jeremy. “Your turn.”

 

He didn’t hesitate, doing the entire line before Imogen even had time to put the toilet lid down so she could sit. Jeremy wiped the remaining dust from his nostrils and cracked a wide grin. He tossed the bag back to her, mumbling, “Happy fuckin’ birthday, Genny.”

 

“Yeah. So fucking happy. Parents still think that throwing money in my general fucking direction will fool me into thinking that _this time_ they really give a shit.” Imogen sighed and traded the bag for her lighter out of her bra once again. Jeremy was staring at her chest, as absent as it was, though she was too busy trying to twirl the lighter in her hands.

 

“Hey. Only two more years until you graduate.” Jeremy plucked Imogen’s lighter out of her hand, his body half bent down so that his face was level with hers. “Then you can get out of this shithole of a town.”

 

“Every town is a shithole. And besides. Where am I supposed to go?”

 

“College? You’re smart enough for that shit.”

 

“Because colleges love druggies who skip classes all day.” Imogen watched as Jeremy lit a cigarette, and her heart began to race. The shower wasn’t on and the smoke smell would linger. The coke was making her paranoid, but he was in her way and she couldn’t quite make it there without crawling over him. “Can you cut that the fuck out?”

 

Jeremy blew a large cloud of smoke in her face, making her frown. _Fuck it_ , she thought, before crawling over Jeremy’s lap to get to the dial on the shower. Before she reached it, however, she felt a hand on her ass followed by a tight squeeze. Imogen got up, her heart still racing, and stormed over to the other side of the bathroom.

 

“Jesus, you’re such a _dickhead_ when you do coke. Don’t fucking touch me! I told you, we’re not doing _that_ again!” She began pacing, the smell of cigarette smoke filling the small bathroom to the point where it was nearly choking her. “I need to fucking go.” Before Jeremy could reply, Imogen was already storming out. The music was back on, the party going on just fine without her. She snickered, because to be honest she found it quite funny. A metaphor for the rest of her fucking life. It didn’t surprise her in the slightest that no one had noticed she was even gone. She could hear Jeremy following behind her, trying to apologize, but she didn’t want any of it.

 

She made her way outside, breathing in the cold March air. It burned her lungs and made her skin break out into goosebumps, but she didn’t care. “Fucking _shit_.” She mumbled to herself as she wandered towards the family garage. She fumbled through entering the code for the door, as her vision was beginning to double, but she managed to make it all right after the third try. Inside it was slightly warmer and smelled slightly of gasoline with the vaguest whisper of pot. It was strangely comforting, in some sick and twisted way. At first, she only wanted to hide. Hiding was a specialty of hers, after all. But, for a moment… Just a fleeting moment.

 

Imogen grabbed her keys off of the hook near the door and got into her car. She had just received it that day - a brand new silver BMW that her parents had picked out in another effort to feign interest in her life. She didn’t have her license yet. Shit, she didn’t even have her permit, but at the moment the best idea she could come up with was taking a drive. She slid into the driver’s seat and cranked the seat all the way up. She was still almost too tiny to be able to see and hit the pedals, but with some finagling with the seat she was able to manage it. Before she could talk herself out of it, she started the car, threw it into reverse, and shot down the driveway.

 

Imogen didn’t know the song that was playing on the radio, but she still cranked the volume up all the way and attempted to sing along while she flew down the street, all the windows rolled down. _Fuck my parents, fuck Jeremy, fuck all the shitbags partying in my house._ She wasn’t even mad, per se. There was just a nagging empty feeling inside of her chest and she needed to get the fuck away. Imogen wasn’t paying attention much. She didn’t fucking care. She was a little unsettled by the fact that she didn’t even care if she crashed and ended up as a fucking smear on the pavement.

 

High on the coke and the promise of danger, Imogen slammed down on the gas pedal, blowing through a stop sign or two just because she could. She felt free, her whole face tingling from the adrenaline and cocaine buzzing through her system.

 

“Fuck yeah.” She mumbled under her breath, speeding around the corner. She thought it was kind of weird that there was no one else on the roads at the moment, but she took all the luck that she could get. She was riding pretty high on it, that is… until she caught sight of flashing lights in her rearview mirror. “Shit!”

 

Imogen pulled over, knowing full well that she was fucked up the ass. Running away would only make charges worse, and even her mom wouldn’t be able to get her out of that shithole.

 

“License and registration.” The cop said, shining a flashlight straight in her eyes. Her eyes, dilated wide from the coke, stung with the light. She looked away sharply, hiding her face with her arm.

 

“I don’t…” She was at a loss for words, mumbling a slur of sounds that didn’t string into anything close to resembling any language known to man.

 

“Ma’am, I’m going to need to you step out of the vehicle.” He was starting to sound a bit more concerned as opposed to angry, but Imogen was still quaking in fear. She _knew_ she had fucked up; fucked up bad. She hesitated for a moment, then nodded and got out of the car.

 

Imogen was short and skinny, barely breaking five feet and composed more of harsh angles of bones than flesh. Her hair was long and strawberry blonde, wisping almost like a child’s. The cop was quite shocked. She just looked so young.

 

“Jesus. How old are you, kid?” He asked, shining the light on her again. She winced and recoiled at the sudden assault, but managed to mumble a quiet ‘ _sixteen_.’ “Shit.” The cop looked away, a frown on his face. She could see the badge on his chest, reading ‘Officer Daniels’ for a brief moment, before he lifted the flashlight back up to her eyes.

 

“Kid, have you been drinking tonight?” Officer Daniels asked, and Imogen shook her head yes. “Have you used any other mind-altering substances tonight?” Once again, Imogen shook her head yes. There wasn’t much else she could do. They would find out anyway, especially due to the baggie of cocaine sitting in her bra.

 

“I’m not saying anything else without my lawyer!” She said it in almost a squeak, her voice barely above a whisper and completely unsure. The cop looked at her with a frown, as if he were thinking _yeah right, you don’t have a lawyer._ He still looked reluctant, even as he pulled out his handcuffs.

 

“Sorry, kid. I’m gonna have to take you in.” Imogen seemed to sober up pretty quickly, though she was a different kind of absent. Everything became a blur as Officer Daniels cuffed her, the cold metal biting into her skin while he gave his speech. Reading her rights didn’t do much when her head was so scrambled that she couldn’t even comprehend what was going on. _Happy fucking birthday_.

 

The room was cold, Imogen’s skin prickling into a blotchy mess of goosebumps while her mother stood beside her. Eileen Marshall had brown hair, peppered with small strands of grey, and the same green eyes as Imogen. If she hadn’t been wearing heels, she would have only risen a few inches above her daughter. She had a fuller figure, dressed to the nines in a highly tailored suit. Her blouse was a bright red with a slightly revealing neckline, however it was just tasteful enough for a well-known lawyer.

 

Imogen was sitting down, her head leaning forward so that her hair was slightly covering her face. It was sticking in some places due to the tears freely flowing down her cheeks. It had been a few weeks since the incident, and for once she was getting what she wanted. Her parents were paying attention to her, only because she was in legal trouble. There had been a lot of words tossed around. Parole. Juvenile detention. Rehabilitation facility.

 

She had been charged with drug possession, driving under the influence, underage consumption of alcohol, driving without a license, reckless driving… After the cops had called her parents, her dad had found her stash. A shoebox under her bed wasn’t the best place to store her drugs, but it had worked until then. He had found a few bottles of Adderall--obviously not prescribed to her, a bag of amphetamine powder, another small bag of cocaine, and a few joints stored in a plastic case made for playing cards.

 

Imogen was contemplating her fate when the cops left the room, leaving her alone with her mother. “Look at me, young lady.” Eileen said, and Imogen slowly raised her head to meet her mother’s eyes. “You’re incredibly lucky. You should be rotting in juvie right now. You’re going to rehab.”

  
She didn’t feel lucky. She felt like shit and all she wanted was a cigarette or a pop of Addy, instead she was going to rehab. “Get up. We’re going over there right now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Readers of Worm might be familiar with 'Weaver Dice', the game invented by Taylor to illustrate the struggles of hero and villain, simplified to a form that could be played by middle schoolers. 
> 
> Weaver Dice is a real game, designed by the author, Wildbow, and you can find its rulebook and corresponding documentation here - http://tinyurl.com/WeaverDice - bearing in mind that it's still a work in progress.
> 
> I'm the GM for a Weaver Dice campaign set in Cleveland. In said campaign, purplepoctopus - known as Saff on the IRC where the game takes place, plays as Imogen Marshall. This story is written by her - she should be getting credit as the primary author, though I can't seem to figure out how to do that - based on the events and sessions her character went through. The logs for this campaign can be found at http://tinyurl.com/WDCleveland.


	2. Allegheny 1

Allegheny Wilderness Rehabilitation Center. A highly esteemed facility with a high success rate. 98.9% of patients never used again. Imogen only had friends of friends who had been sent out there, but had heard no stories. It was in the middle of the woods, secluded by trees and vines and some broken-down wire fencing. It looked like Hell on Earth, and Imogen couldn’t help but feel nauseous. 

 

“You need to get better, Imogen,” her father said, prodding her in her lower back when she refused to move from the safety of the immediate area around her mother’s car.  _ I’m fine. I haven’t hurt anyone. _ She thought, her eyes narrowing in silent rage. It was better than spending time in juvie, but damn. It wasn’t going to be fun. 

 

Her steps toward the front door were slow, her eyes glued to the ground. There didn’t seem to be anyone else out there, and when the reached the lobby she found it the same. There was a woman with a crooked hawk nose and a large mole on her left cheek sitting at the reception desk, typing away on a keyboard. 

 

“Name?” The woman said, not even looking up from her business when the family had barely stepped inside.

 

“Imogen Marshall. Involuntary inpatient.” Her mother answered. Imogen felt small-- smaller than usual, and tried to hide behind her dad. Unfortunately the woman had come around the desk and was sticking her hand out to grab Imogen by the wrist. 

 

“Here.” She barked, and Imogen followed. The woman’s grip was firm to the point of being painful, her leathery skin pressing against the teen’s. 

 

“Date of birth?” Imogen stammered, trying to answer, when her mother spoke up.

 

“March 28, 1993.” Eileen began tapping her foot, staring her daughter down with a disappointed glare. The woman let go of Imogen’s hand when they were in front of the desk, and she ran back behind it. 

 

“We don’t carry children’s sizes.” She said, handing Imogen a bundle of clothes wrapped in a thin plastic. “This is the smallest. This bag has your toiletries. Toothpaste, toothbrush, comb, soap, deodorant…” Said items were in a second bag, this one a string backpack made out of canvas. 

 

“Feminine products must be requisitioned here. Any medication will be dispensed only by the infirmary here in cabin 1, only for emergencies.” She was now digging through a manila folder, one neatly labeled with Imogen’s name on the tab on the side. The girl swallowed hard, her throat dry, and looked back down at the ground. A paper was thrust into her hand, one displaying a strict itinerary. 

 

“Meals are at the stated times. Be there on time. You will have assigned days to clean the mess hall and the restrooms in your cabin. Beds must be made. Lights out is at 9. You’ll be staying in cabin 2, bunk 5.” 

 

_ Cabin 2, bunk 5. Cabin 2, bunk 5. _ She kept repeating it over and over in her head as her hands shook. “Say goodbye to your parents, and then go get changed.” The woman barked. Imogen elected to not even look at her parents. She ventured down the hall to where the woman instructed and got changed in the bathroom. The clothes were too big: the t-shirt was baggy and went down to her knees. The athletic shorts were large in the waist and in length, the socks were itchy, and the tennis shoes pinched her toes. When she reemerged from the restroom, the woman was standing outside, tapping her toe against the white tile floor. 

 

“Finally. Let’s go. You have group in five minutes.” She was very insistent, even though all Imogen wanted to do was fucking sleep. Her head and stomach hurt, this place already seemed shitty, and the prospect of going through detox frankly scared her. 

 

“Can’t I just…  _ not _ right now? I just got here, it was a long drive… I really just need to fucking sleep.” She wiped her face with her hand and gave a yawn, only to be pulled out of it by the woman literally pulling her. Her nails were digging into Imogen’s skin, leaving angry red half moons across her pale skin. 

 

“Absolutely not. Insubordination _ will _ be punished. Don’t think that you’ll get away with it because it’s your first day.” The woman, who hadn’t even introduced herself, was glaring at the girl with cold eyes. The only thing Imogen could do was concede.

 

“Fine. Fuck. Whatever.” She mumbled before she began following the woman. The pains in her stomach were beginning to grow worse, but she decided to keep her mouth shut. It didn’t seem like complaining would be tolerated well here. 

 

Group, as Imogen soon found out, was short for group therapy. This meant that she had to sit in a room with a bunch of other people who didn’t want to be there to talk about their feelings. Everyone was staring at her as soon as she came in, most of them looked worse for wear. The other teens seemed lethargic, almost emaciated, and there was this distinct look of obedient fear sunken into their eyes. It frightened Imogen, and she immediately wanted to get out. The kids were all sitting in plastic chairs, the cheap kind that stacked easily, and towards the top of the circle sat a man in his early thirties. His chair was larger and comfier looking, and he had a clipboard on his lap.

 

“Hello.” He said to her, standing up to pull her into the circle. His grip was lighter than the woman’s, but there was still something  _ off _ about it. Imogen swallowed hard and looked around– anywhere but in his eyes. “My name is Ted, I’m one of the Lifestyle Coaches here at AWRP. Everyone, this is…” He paused, waiting for her to finish.

 

“I...Imogen.” She stammered while she tried to pull to get away from the man. Imogen wasn’t used to being the center of attention, even though she craved it, and the dead eyes everyone there seemed to possess made the whole thing even more unsettling.

 

“All right, Imogen. Would you like to tell everyone why you’re here?” Ted asked, and she immediately shook her head no. “That wasn’t a question.” He said, this time staring more intently at her. Words were escaping her. Her throat was dry, and all she wanted to do was puke.

 

“I can just look in your file.” Ted said. He was making a show of flipping through the pages pinned to his clipboard, and it was making her incredibly nervous. Imogen was about to give up when the girl next to her prodded her in the arm. 

 

“Just do it. Trust me.” She whispered, her eyes glued intently on Imogen’s. She decided to heed the girl’s warning, but kept her head down.

 

“Drugs. I love drugs.” Ted scribbled something on the clipboard, flipped the pages down, then looked back over at her. She looked so small compared to the others, and the way she was sliding down in her chair just made her look smaller. Ted began to talk about something, but Imogen was so zoned out that most of it blurred past her. No one seemed to be talking unless talked to, and at the moment she was being left alone. 

 

This all still seemed like a bad dream, even now. She probably could have even sat there, just staring at the floor all night if the girl next to her didn’t shake her back into reality. “Hey!” the girl said, poking Imogen in the side. The contact hurt more than it should have, mainly because her stomach was cramping to hell and back. 

 

“What?” Imogen hissed back, and the girl just smiled. 

 

“Walk with me to dinner. You’re new, I’m not. Someone has to show you the ropes.” The girl held out her hand and smiled a toothy grin. “I’m Molly.”

 

“Imogen.” She looked the girl over, trying to match her face to a name even though her head felt like it was in a fog. She had white blonde hair, sun tanned skin, and brown eyes. Molly towered several inches above Imogen, putting her over 5’5” if she had to guess. “What ropes are there, really? Isn’t it just no drugs and no fun?”

 

“Nope. That’s why someone needs to clue you in.” Molly’s smile turned quickly into a frown. “Don’t be late to meals. You won’t eat and you’ll have to clean everyone’s shit.”  

 

“Try to use the bathroom right before or after meals, or right before bed. Any other time and you’ll probably be wiping shit all night. You don’t clean well enough? Big Bertha, that lady with the mole? She’ll probably beat you with pine branches until you can only writhe in bed.”

 

“You’re lying.” Imogen said, her face frowning in disbelief. 

 

“I’m not.” Molly rolled up her sleeve to reveal a few deep welts on her upper arm, some beginning to turn green and bruise. “What’s your drug of choice?”

 

“Speed. Shit, that’s my favorite. Coke’s great too, though I would kill for just a fucking cigarette right now…” Imogen bit down hard on her thumbnail, then yelped. It had already been bitten down to the quick and any further nibbling was just making it worse. 

 

“So you won’t be shitting yourself. That’s good. Try to stay on your feet. If you take too much time off they’ll make you clean the stables or sleep in the woods.” Molly led her around the corner to the large cabin labeled ‘Mess Hall’, and Imogen almost walked away. This girl had to be hardcore shitting her. But when she tried to leave, Molly grabbed her wrist. “Also, watch Ted. He’s kind of a perv. If you get put in a tent he’ll try to sneak in.” 

 

That didn’t make Imogen feel any better about the whole mess. In fact, it just made her nearly sick to her stomach. Molly pat her on the back, then left in a different direction to leave her alone again. 

 

At the table, she switched from chewing on her nails to her cuticles, then when those began to bleed she moved to her knuckles. The portions of food were small and nearly inedible, which only made Imogen’s stomach hurt more. She had this insatiable hunger, but even with that she could barely choke the food down. There was a small roll that was pretty close to rock hard and tasting of sand, a piece of chicken with the grill marks painted on in caramel color and liquid smoke barely larger than a chicken nugget, and a few overcooked carrots. 

 

After a few pokes at the food and half a carton of chocolate milk, Imogen got up from the table to return to her bunk. It seemed like that was what the others were doing, and the itinerary she was stuck with allowed for some free time before lights out. Instead of heading to the rec room or fucking around in the woods, she decided to find her cabin and bunk to get a head start on some much-needed sleep. 

 

The moment she stepped outside, she was overcome by a sudden chill. The air was cold and it was beginning to rain. Her shitty rehab-issued clothing wasn’t doing much to protect her from the elements either. She had seen some of the other kids in the mess hall with hoodies, and for a moment she wondered if she could get her hands on one of those. For the moment though she was stuck with the t-shirt and shorts that were quickly getting wet.

 

_ Cabin 2, bunk 5. Cabin 2, bunk 5. _ She kept repeating the mantra in her head, even as she wandered into the building to get out of the rain. Each of the beds were clearly marked with a number, and each and every one of them was meticulously made. 

 

It wasn’t hard for her to find her bed. Bed number five was placed in the back corner and a stack of additional clothes and a pair of pajamas were sitting at the foot of the bed. There was no one else in there, and even then Imogen didn’t particularly give two fucks. She stripped off the wet shirt and shorts and pulled on the pajamas. They were about as itchy as the socks and way too big, but they were dry at least. 

 

“Can’t even have a fucking Advil…” Imogen mumbled to herself as she shuffled into the bathroom, the bottoms of her pajama pants dragging against the wooden floor. She made her way to one of the sinks and wet her toothbrush thoroughly before applying the toothpaste from the little tube they had given her. The intensity of the mint burned her gums, but that feeling was preferable to the series of knots in her stomach. She had taken her last hit of Addy the day before, and it was already nearly unbearable.  _ Just need to cooperate. Then you’ll get out of here. _

 

She tried to keep her thoughts positive as she walked back over to her bed and nestled under the covers. They were thin, but workable. If worst came to worst she could use the sweatshirt that had been in the stack of clothes to add extra layers. It wasn’t necessary, though, as she managed to fall asleep quite quickly, the wave of relaxation rushing over her.

 

Her sleep was light and fitful, coupled with alternating periods of night sweats and cold spells. After the third or so swing, most of her blankets landed on the ground somewhere out of her reach. She had intense nightmares all throughout her slumber, the kind that seem too-real and stack into a no-escape situation. She kept ‘waking up’ into different and more horrific dreams, sending her on edge. Still she was exhausted, craving the boost of Speed to keep her going. 


	3. Allegheny 2

She woke up to the sound of a blaring air horn placed right next to her ear. As she tried to blink herself awake she saw the woman with the giant mole standing above her, holding the source of the noise. “Marshall! What are you doing still in bed?” 

 

Imogen sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes as she drew her knees to her chest. “What? What time is it?”

 

“Eleven. You missed all of your morning activities, your bed isn’t made, and you haven’t even showered.” She tsked and shook her head, though Imogen just shrugged it off. She rolled back over onto her side and wrapped an arm around her head to block out the light, fully intending to go back to sleep. There was an intense pounding in her head, brought on either by the air horn or the light or even just the fucking detox, and still she could do nothing about it. Before she could get comfortable, however, Big Bertha grabbed her by the arm and began dragging her out of bed. Imogen crashed to the floor with a loud bump, causing her to hit her head on the bed frame.

 

“What the fuck, lady?” She shouted, rubbing her head with her free hand while Bertha just dragged her along the ground. “Let me  _ go _ !”

 

“You have been incredibly insubordinate since the moment you arrived here.” Bertha said as she pulled Imogen towards the front steps of the cabin. 

 

“Let go of me, you miserable  _ bitch _ .” Imogen tried to pull away, but Bertha just kept pulling. She bumped her tailbone on the way down the stairs, eliciting a pain in a place that she barely knew could  _ feel _ pain.

 

“At least  _ try _ to walk.” The woman said, and Imogen reluctantly stood up. She was sore, that was for sure, and there was dirt and dust caked on her pajamas. Still, half-assed walking was better than being dragged. They were headed towards the center of the camp compound, though Imogen wasn’t sure of an exact location. Some of the other campers were outside, staring at them with wide-eyed horror. 

 

Their destination was a wooden platform in front of the main building, where the onlookers had gathered. The expressions on their faces told one story– that they didn’t want to be there, but their presence told another.  _ What the fuck is going on? _

 

“Kneel.” Bertha shouted as she careened Imogen onto the splintering wood. She caught herself before her face hit the platform, but her hands caught the brunt of it. It was chilly outside and the thin material of the rehab-issued pajamas wasn’t doing much to keep out the cold. Combined with the natural lack of body fat she possessed, Imogen was too busy trying not to freeze to care about whatever this lady was screaming.

“Fuck off.” She snapped, attempting to push off the woman’s crusty old hands, which were pulling at the shirt. Bertha was able to pull it up over her head, but not off completely, leaving the black cloth covering her face. She could hear more footsteps drawing closer, and she could only imagine how many people were standing there watching her out in the open, in a humiliating position in pajama pants and a sports bra while a crazy lady screamed at her.

 

Imogen didn’t have much time to react before the first whack on her back. The skin stung, growing red and angry in the shape of the switch that had hit her. The next hit clipped her spine, causing her to fall further forward.  _ What the fuck, what the fuck? _

 

All Imogen could do was cover her head and hope that it would end soon. Beating people?  _ Drug addicts? _ This went way past cruel and unusual punishment straight into abuse. The switch came down several more times, seven or eight she would have to guess. Lost count on the way. 

 

“Up.” Bertha snapped. Imogen immediately complied, lest she be punished again. She was shaky as she got to her feet, pulling the shirt back down on the way up. Everything was coated with mud and dust and she was  _ positive _ that some of the welts were open and bleeding. 

 

“Can I go now?” Imogen asked, her head held low. Bertha grunted something that sounded like a yes– and even if it wasn’t a yes it wouldn’t stop her from getting a shower. “Crazy fucking bitch…” Her words were muttered so low they were almost inaudible as she walked towards the cabin. No one reacted to them anyway. All she wanted was a bump of speed and maybe a McDouble, but instead she was stuck the fuck here for god knows how long.

 

Her walk was labored and slow, as she had to stop every few seconds to suck in another long breath to block out the pain. By the time she got into the cabin and stripped down to shower, she had confirmed her suspicions. The back of the shirt was sticking to her injured skin, and when she managed to pull it off she found that it was stained with lines of blood. She tossed the soiled garment to the floor and turned on the shower water. 

 

It was too cold, but it felt good on her now purpling skin. She realized rather quickly that the bar of soap given to her was meant to double as a body cleanser and a shampoo, and silently wept for the state of her hair. Imogen had been taking care of it meticulously for years, letting it grow long and shiny. It made her feel at least a little better about her shitty life, and now that was going to go out the window. “Fucking great.”

 

The suds stuck in her hair, tangling it together into ratty knots. The more she worked at it, the more she knew it was a lost cause. The least of her many new problems, but a problem nonetheless. She began to silently, then loudly, curse her mother for putting her here. Juvie wouldn’t be any better, but goddamn this fucking  _ sucked _ . 

 

Once she was sufficiently sure that she was clean and that the bleeding had ceased, she shut off the water and let out one last exasperated sigh. The adrenaline rush was beginning to die down, and all she could feel was the insatiable itch deep in her skin for another hit of something. 

 

The pain of her bumps and bruises and cuts was beginning to show itself, her skin feeling like it had been torn open at the seams. She was almost sure she had done something to her tailbone in the fall on the stairs, but they wouldn’t do jack shit for that. Even an ibuprofen or two would be seen as contraband in this hellhole. 

 

She fumbled around for her towel, one arm poking out of the shower curtain while the rest of her remained inside, until she finally found it. Breathing a sigh of relief Imogen stepped out onto the dingy tiles and waddled back to her bunk, her long hair dripping a trail of water behind her. This week was only the start to a long stay in hell.

 

It had been two weeks since Imogen had arrived at the camp, two  _ long _ weeks. Her fingernails were ragged and bitten down to the quicks, her hair had become dull and dry and ragged, and she had managed to drop even more weight. She looked like a ghost of her former self, sickly and sullen. Dark purple bags hung under her eyes, giving them a dead and lifeless look. 

 

Two weeks at Allegheny and she had made no improvements. She felt sick every day, ravenous with hunger, fighting against phantom bugs crawling under her skin. It was hell, and every day made her crave something to take the edge off more than the last. Imogen had managed to avoid another beating by the skin of her teeth, watching as her fellow campers met the same and worse fates as her. 

 

Not everyone took it as well. One of the girls in her small group had been found earlier in the week, sitting on the shower floor half-dead from a heroin overdose. None of the staff were able to figure out where she got the smack from, but the ship got a lot tighter after that. Imogen knew that it was only a matter of time before she’d receive another beating for oversleeping or not scrubbing the floors right or for just existing. 

 

The anxiety from anticipation alone was eating at her– every little thing was making her jump. It was getting more and more noticeable to the point where the littlest things were making her jump. It was a Tuesday, one of the few days where the sun wasn’t hidden behind clouds, when Imogen barely made it to breakfast on time. She sat down at one of the long cafeteria-style tables and put her head down on the formica. 

 

Her sleep had been shallow and fitful the past few nights, usually ending with her throwing all the sheets off and waking up in a cold sweat, and the previous night had been no different. She had fallen half asleep on the table when Molly sat down next to her, making her nearly jump through the ceiling.

 

“Heya, Champ.” Molly said, grinning from ear to ear. It was unlike her, to say the least. Normally the girl had a cool frown upon her face. Seeing her smiling like this was  _ weird _ and unsettling to Imogen. “Gotcha a present.”

 

“What?” Imogen asked, her eyes blinking slowly. She couldn’t even fathom what would be considered a present in this joint, and she wasn’t sure that she wanted to find out. Still, she didn’t protest as Molly handed her one of the camp’s dinner rolls. It didn’t  _ seem  _ suspicious, but  _ why _ on Earth did Molly give her shitty bread? “I’m not hungry…”

 

“Just take it!” Molly said, pressing the stale crust harder into Imogen’s hands. Upon further inspection, she noticed that there was what appeared to be a hole in the side of the bread, almost like on a jelly donut. When she stuck her finger inside, however, she didn’t find jelly. Inside the roll were three orange tablets, each printed with the letters ‘AD’ and the number ‘30’. 

 

“Holy  _ fuck _ .” Imogen said as she held the pills under the table in her outstretched palm. “How did you get these?” Her voice was barely above a hushed whisper, hoping that no one would catch on.

 

“Don’t ask. Look, do you want ‘em or not?” Molly crossed her arms over her chest while she awaited an answer, her eyebrows furrowed in a frown.

 

“Hell yeah I want ‘em. But… what’s it going to cost me?” Imogen slipped the pills back into the bread, though it was taking everything in her to not just gobble them up right then and there. She wanted them more than she wanted a McDouble and a good night’s sleep. 

 

“Nothing. Think of that as my little treat.” Molly pat her on the back and then stood up from the table, giving Imogen a quick wink. “Really, just take them.”

 

Imogen didn’t know what to say, she was so taken aback. She stammered out a quick “Thank you.” and slipped the pills from the bread to her pocket. There weren’t many times in the day where she would end up being alone, but Imogen knew she would have to make time. A few pops of Addy would be worth the trouble of sneaking off, that she knew.

 

The advent of nightfall seemed to come slower than normal. Imogen had spent her day digging at her skin to keep herself from wasting the pills. Waiting until it got dark was the smartest decision. Everyone had some sort of free time, so slipping off into the woods wouldn’t be the weirdest thing anyone ever did. Sure, security had been a bit tighter since Anna had OD’d, and the fact that the area was a known home to bears usually kept people out but… Imogen decided that one more hit outweighed any potential risks. 

 

It came after another inedible dinner. It was another cloudy and moonless night, dark and quiet as everyone shuffled off to get in any last minute showers. Imogen left the mess hall with her sweatshirt hood pulled over her head, hanging nearly over her eyes. She waited until everyone was heading off in their own directions, out of her line of sight before she slunk off near the thick treeline behind the building. It was still cold outside, the nighttime air biting at her nose as she trekked further into the woods. 

 

She was trying to be careful to watch her footing. She didn’t need to arouse any suspicions by breaking sticks or crinkling the leaves too loudly, and god forbid she fell. Even with her emaciated body weight the noise would still alert someone to suspicion. 

 

Imogen kept her fingers buried tightly in the sleeves of the hoodie, the pills clutched tightly in her sweating palms. They had been itching a hole in her pocket, but she was waiting– saving them until she reached her destination. 

 

The small clearing in the middle of the forest was calm. Normally, the area would be illuminated by some meager bit of moonlight, enough that the bubbling stream would be visible. Instead, the water was black and shiny in the darkness. Imogen carefully wandered over to a large rock and took a seat. Her butt nearly froze through the thin material of the camp-issued athletic shorts, but she had more pressing things to care about. 

 

After double checking that no one else was around, Imogen unfurled her hand to reveal the three pills. Some of the orange dye had rubbed off on her hands, but she didn’t really care too much about it. In a moment, she’d be back in strung-out  _ bliss. _ She looked at the three pills, poking at them with her index finger to make sure that yes, they were real, before she dry swallowed them. 

 

Imogen closed her eyes, waiting for the high to crash over her. For the first time since her birthday, she actually felt  _ good _ and the drugs hadn’t even hit yet. She almost didn’t remember what that felt like, feeling  _ normal _ . It probably wasn’t good that she needed the promise of drugs to feel like a human being, but  _ goddamnit _ in her mind there was nothing better than a sweet hit of speed. She let her head hit the trunk of a nearby tree, not even caring that her hair was getting tangled against the bark. 

 

Her bliss was soon interrupted by the skittering of flashlights through the trees. The bright lights caused her to rip her eyes open, looking around as she slunk behind a tree to try to avoid detection. Her ears were buzzing with fear, to the point where she could just barely make out whispers in the darkness.

 

“...be out here somewhere.”

 

“...can’t hide.”

 

“Severe punishment…”

 

Imogen felt her stomach drop out her butt. They were looking for her, and they probably  _ knew _ . They’d drug test her. They’d lock her in one of the solitary rooms. They’d beat her and starve her and god knows what else. One of the voices was clearly male… She’d managed to avoid being diddled by Ted during her stay, but she didn’t know how much longer that would last. 

 

“...possible escape attempt?” 

 

_ Shit. Shit, shit, shit. _ Her skin broke out into a cold sweat. They were coming for her. Before she could even react, she heard a siren crack on. Its shrill screech echoed through the woods, blaring through Imogen’s ears.  _ No, no, no, NO. _ There was nothing left to do but run.

 

She took off in the opposite direction of the voices. She didn’t know her way through the woods but that was the last thing on her mind at the moment. She knew she needed to get out, and get out fast. Maybe there was a road, maybe there was  _ something. _

 

A voice called out from past the foliage, harsh and grating. “We know you’re out here!”

 

“Come out with yo—”

 

She suddenly found her mind elsewhere. Panic and adrenaline forgotten, the fugue of withdrawals giving way to sharp clarity.

 

Massive beings crowded in the entirety of her mind’s eye.

 

They were distinct, separate, and yet intertwined, united, weaving in and out of space in directions that bent and twisted her mind in her attempt to comprehend. And, above all, they were  _ vast _ .

 

Despite the lack of frame of reference, she could tell that the scale these creatures were on dwarfed her, dwarfed her country, her world, growing larger in her scope and perception as her brain accommodated the concept of scale.

 

At first, they seemed similar in size to a planet, but as her perspective distorted, she could see them filtering through countless dimensions, a codex of realities, occupying more realspace than a planet in a single reality could ever hope to achieve.

 

As they drifted apart, they spoke, or so she thought, lacking a better word to describe the communication. A single phrase, concept, conveyed like countless cannons fired in sync.

 

_ Destination. _

 

_Agreem_ —

 

“—ur hands up!”

 

She stumbled, reeling, with the shock of the vision, even as it faded from her mind entirely, discarded or forgotten or dismissed as a consequence of drug use, as the distant light of the flashlights grow ever closer. There was only one thing left to do. 

  
_ Run. _


	4. Allegheny 3

Imogen took off, bulleting through the treeline as fast as her feet could go. She chalked it up to the drugs, but it felt like she was going faster than she should physically be able to. She was dodging trees and rocks at an incredible speed, and by the time she found the next clearing it felt like she was flying. She closed her eyes for the briefest of moments, hearing the shouts and sirens fade into the distance, and when she opened her eyes she nearly hurled. She was airborne. 

 

Everything was spinning. Imogen knew that this wasn’t a bad trip. Somehow she felt like this was  _ right _ . Like she was meant to be zooming above the treetops, letting the leaves rake at her icy skin. “Holy  _ fuck _ .” Maybe it was a dream… a really  _ weird _ dream.

 

The kids in the Wards always seemed larger than life. They didn’t do drugs or skip class or any of the other bullshit that Imogen did on a daily basis. Their parents probably gave a shit about them. On the other hand, she wasn’t fucked up enough to be like any of the villains that always ended up on the nightly news broadcasts. Sure there were probably people in-between, but she never really cared enough about parahumans to really look into it. 

 

Imogen was lost in thought by the time she came upon the long stretch of highway that cut past the national forest. “Shit.” Her words came out with a puff of icy breath and a twinge of anxiety. Just  _ how _ was she supposed to figure out how to get down?

 

“Fuck, fuck,  _ fuck _ .” She shouted as she screwed her eyes shut, focusing all of her thoughts on landing. The feeling of flying quickly turned into the sensation of  _ falling _ , and Imogen was sure she was going to shit herself in fear. She heard a bang, a  _ loud _ one, and felt a rain of something or other shatter against her skin. When she grew brave enough to open her eyes, she found herself standing in a crater with several downed trees around her. Splinters and dirt and other shrapnel were stuck to her clothes and tangled in her hair, caking her in debris.

 

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck’ quickly evolved into ‘ _ the fuck? _ ’ as Imogen got to her feet, futilely attempting to sweep the dirt from her shirt. She had been pretty high up. A fall like that should have left her with at least  _ something _ being broken. But, she was fine. No bruises, no cuts or scratches. After everything that happened,  _ this _ was what was pulling her towards the nagging feeling of it being a trip. 

 

She had no clue where she was, to be honest. There was a highway cutting through the trees, possibly the one her parents had driven her down to drop her off at Camp Hell. However, there was no way to check. Her cell phone was back in the office. She was barely wearing real people clothing. She had nothing, and that was fucking scary.

 

The first thought that popped into her head was to hitchhike. Sure, she knew that was dangerous considering she fell into the category of ‘jailbait’ but she had managed to escape being diddled at rehab, though she hadn't spent much time there, to be fair. Maybe she could manage to avoid it on the road. Imogen closed her eyes and stepped to the edge of the road, holding her thumb up in the air. It was late… but maybe someone would drive by?

 

Before long a car passed, zooming ahead of her without a second glance. A black sedan followed it a few minutes later, followed by a few other assorted cars and a semi. No one was stopping. “What I would give to find a fucking perv right now.” She mumbled under her breath. 

 

Her teeth were chattering from a combination of the cold and from being tweaked out, and her skin was blisteringly painful from the tight goosebumps forming. She was desperate at this point, and decided that her best option was to take off down the road. Maybe she’d find a gas station or a truck stop or something. 

 

The pavement felt good under her feet as she began her trek, like running was what she was meant to do. Every step hung slightly in the air, almost as if she were floating. The cold night air rushed through her tangled hair and beat against her freckled face. Everything felt good for once, even though she was feeling the rush of the speed trickle into a dull buzz. She had escaped, she was  _ free _ . 

 

But… Now what? She couldn’t go home. Leaving rehab was a violation of the court agreement. Going home would end with her being dragged off to the nearest juvenile detention center. Her parents would be pissed, and her freedom would be gone for  _ good _ . It would be on her record, her life would be ruined. It wasn’t worth it, especially since home had never been a particularly great place. Might as well run as far as possible and start a new life. 

 

Her thoughts all ran together, making her lose track of time. By the time she ran upon a gas station down the road, it was probably already past midnight. She skidded to a stop, cracking the sidewalk underneath her feet before she returned to a normal walking pace. The station had a run-down looking convenience store next to it with a dim light still shining. She was hoping to find someone to take her into town, but… even through the amphetamine rush she still felt like she was starving. It felt like her stomach was eating itself, but she had no money.

 

“Fuck it…” She said, continuing the theme of the night, and walked off towards the convenience store. It looked grimy as hell, black sludge caking the grout in the tiles, cigarette butts and ashes hanging out in the unoccupied space. It smelled like urine and stale coffee inside, with an endnote of eau de armpit. The whole place gave her the skeevy, spine tingling need to wash her hands. 

 

The electric bell rang as the door closed behind her, alerting the cashier to her presence. He was an older, heavier set man with heavy bags under his eyes. He looked sleepy and greasy, staring at her with a suspicious eye as she walked past a display of condoms and candy bars. She supposed that it  _ was _ kind of weird for a teenage girl to show up in a gas station in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night, so he had some right to look at her that way, but… Damn, that was going to make things harder. 

 

Imogen wandered over towards the rows of candy and pretended to be comparing different varieties of chocolate. Snickers, Milky Way, Payday… she skipped over the Reese’s Cups, but lifted the others, compiling her stash in her hands. The man was no longer looking at her, instead working to fix the large shelf of cigarettes behind him. She breathed a sigh of relief, then faked a large sneeze while she shoved the candy into the too-big waistband of the camp’s athletic shorts.

 

The additional pressure on her stomach alerted her to the fullness of her bladder.  _ Shit,  _ it was uncomfortable, and she couldn’t find the bathroom from a cursory glance around. She tried her hardest to look like she wasn’t packing sugar in her waistband, but the combo of slippery packaging and a sore urethra wasn’t helping. Her gait had a slight waddle to it, but the cashier didn’t seem to notice as she walked up to him. 

 

“Looking for something?” he asked, peering down at Imogen with a frown.

 

“Looking for the restroom. Lady problems, you know?” The man immediately looked disgusted, and rummaged around in a drawer before producing a ring of grimy looking keys. He put them into her hand and pointed out the back door, his face cringed up. Imogen breathed a sigh of relief, glad that her ploy had worked. Vagina problems usually shut men right up, and the cashier had been no exception. The funny thing was that Imogen couldn’t even remember the last time she had a regular period. Something to do with being dramatically underweight.  _ Whatever _ . 

 

She walked down to the bathroom and used the key to unlock the door. It was dark, and when she stuck her hand in to fumble around for the the switch she nearly retched. It took a few seconds for the light to flicker on, and she quickly found her hand coated in the same black sludge that seemed to be on everything. “Gross.” She mumbled as she wiped her hand on the material of her shorts. 

 

A few moths skittered in front of the flickering light, sending shadows in Imogen’s line of sight. Each movement nearly made her jump out of her skin, the drugs still coursing through her system with every pulse of her heart. Everything was too vivid– too loud and bright and wild. If she had eaten something substantial in the past two weeks, she probably would have already hurled from the smell. 

 

Even though the place was grody as hell she managed to drop trou to relieve herself, after she had carefully constructed a butt barrier out of toilet tissue. She carefully collected the candy bars in her lap while she peed, and savored the warmth that came over her. Now that she had a few minutes to herself Imogen began tearing through the candy bar wrappers in order to access their delicious contents. 

 

While she probably should have been more disgusted by shoving pilfered candy bars into her mouth in a dirty gas station bathroom, she was too busy savoring the sugar rush. She hadn’t had anything this good in weeks, and the drugs made them taste even better. Once she finished, she disposed of the wrappers in the toilet and crossed her fingers in the hope that everything would flush down.

 

Imogen walked over to the sink and began to wash her hands, even though there was barely a squirt of soap left in the grimy dispenser. She expected as much though, and tried to take as much care as she could to wash away the last bits of sludge. After her hands were sufficiently clean, she took one last look in the mirror to make sure she didn’t have any telltale smears of chocolate on her face. “There.” 

 

With a full belly, Imogen exited the bathroom. The key ring was hanging off of her right index finger, balancing ever-so-slightly to try to minimize contact with its surface. “Thanks.” She mumbled to the cashier, tossing it his way, before she turned around to leave.

 

“Take it easy.” The man said, his voice gruff and sleepy. He looked as if he would nod off any minute, but Imogen didn’t have the time for that. Bertha and Ted would probably be sending their goons out after her, and if she didn’t get out fast she’d be toast. Still, the amphetamine crash was coming soon and it was still late. 

 

“Fuck.” She said as she kicked a rock, staring back into the woods while her teeth chattered. It looked like her sleeping options were pine needles or asphalt. It was a toss up as to whether the woods or the parking lot would be safer if she didn’t want to get raped and murdered, but the cushion of fallen leaves would probably be slightly more comfortable. 

 

She walked over to the treeline, searching around to find somewhere that might be comfortable. However, the speed was still making her skin crawl. The leaves were too itchy, they felt like bugs burrowing deep into her skin. Every time a car passed on the nearby highway she sat bolt upright, paranoid that it was finally the cops coming for her. Sleep wasn’t going to come any time soon– she had gotten  _ too _ high.

 

Done with her attempts, Imogen rose from the ground and wandered around the woods again, hoping to blow time until sunrise. Maybe  _ then  _ someone would pick her up. Plus, she liked the feeling of running, whatever this power was it felt  _ right _ . 

 

The rising sun stung her eyes and did nothing to bring warmth to her skin, but it meant that more and more cars were traveling down the wooded interstate. Still, it took four hours of sticking up her thumb after the sunrise before someone was willing to pick her up. A man driving some sort of unlabeled white semi pulled up, motioning for her to come inside. He was relatively slender from left to right, but his beer gut was unmistakeable. Imogen couldn’t see his face clearly from under his cap, but she didn’t think that he meant her any harm.

 

“Where you headed, kid?” The trucker grunted, finally showing his face to Imogen. He looked more concerned than malicious. He took one look at her t-shirt, reading ‘Allegheny Wilderness Rehabilitation Center’ in white letters and frowned. 

 

“Away?” She frowned back, keeping her eyes glued on the road. Her stomach was starting to feel sour from all the candy bars she had eaten, and she didn’t want to puke in this poor guy’s truck. “I just need to leave.”

 

The trucker frowned even harder. It looked like he was at least taking pity on her. It was pretty clear that she was a runaway, after all. “I’m headed to Akron. That’s as far as I’ll take you.” 

 

Imogen just grunted in response, keeping her eyes glued outside. She wasn’t in the mood for any conversation, and it seemed like the man was picking that up pretty quickly. After a long fifteen minutes of silence, he switched on the radio. It was some old classic rock station, the kind that men his age listen to to relive the good ol days, playing some song that Imogen vaguely knew the words to. She could barely pay attention though, because her crash was slowly settling over her. 

 

Falling asleep in a stranger’s truck would be one of the stupidest things she could probably do, but Imogen knew that good decisions were never her strong suit. After a few futile attempts to keep her eyes open, she gave in to the fatigue. 


	5. Akron 1

Imogen woke up in what felt like no time at all to the trucker shaking her awake. “We’re here, kiddo. Time to go.” She sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from her eyes with a yawn. Her mouth felt gross, tasting of sleep and acid from the stale sugar resting on her teeth. She’d give anything for a toothbrush or even a mint, but that wasn’t currently in the cards.

 

Her skin was crawling. All she could think about was her next fix– the next hit of something good that could tide her over. Even a measly cigarette would be an upgrade from the bullshit empty feeling she was stuck sitting with. Imogen’s stomach rumbled, upset from the abuse it had taken the night before after being starved for so long. She looked around the cab of the truck while the man got out and stretched, but it didn’t seem like there was any cash in plain sight. It was going to be a long day.

 

She hopped out of the truck, swallowing hard as she looked around the stop. The sun was bright and half the truckers around looked about as tweaked out as she had been. A hunger was creeping up into her stomach once again, sending pains throughout her abdomen. “This fucking sucks.”

 

It was sometime in the afternoon, probably close to 2:00. The rest stop contained a few fast food joints, each looking emptier than the last. Her stomach growled as she walked past the McDonald’s and she frowned heavily. She had no money to get anything, and her stomach was fucking eating itself.

 

“Fuck it.” Imogen had never stolen before the previous night, but now it seemed like it was the only way to keep going. Life on the streets wasn’t going to be easy. She wasn’t even sure if she’d survive it. But as she walked to the McDonald’s, she began to have some glimmer of hope. “Let’s do this.” She said before she opened the door, taking the first few steps inside.

 

It was pretty empty, only a few diners were scattered around poking at their fries. One guy in the corner was glued to his phone, not paying much attention. There was one lone cashier who was chomping hard on a stick of bubblegum that had long lost its flavor. She was looking down at the screen, sighing with boredom. It took her a few moments to notice Imogen standing there, picking at her bloody cuticles to avoid the awkwardness from no longer having a phone to dick around on.

 

“You know what you want?” the cashier barked, and Imogen shook her head. “Fine then. Order when you’re ready.”

 

She took a deep breath. How on earth was she going to manage to rob a restaurant? Just because she could fly now didn’t mean that she was automatically a badass, and she was at the point of being so desperate for a fix she would snort a line of kosher salt before passing out in the ball pit.

 

It was slow, and it looked like there were only two people on shift; one at the counter and one on the drive thru. The girl working the counter would probably have to go get food if she ordered, leaving an opening. It wouldn’t be too hard to open the register and grab some cash. She wouldn’t get the food, but she could make a quick escape and end up soaring out the door.

 

Imogen took a seat in one of the plastic booths, tapping her fingers against the table while she waited for the cashier to do something. It was a long wait, or at least it seemed long, before she finally went into the back to do something or other. Imogen didn’t waste any time, getting up and running towards the register before anyone could react. She hopped the counter, using her power to assist her in the acrobatic feat, and landed on the other side of the register.

 

She didn’t know much about the POS system, mainly because she had never worked a day in her life. All the buttons and bells and whistles were intimidating, and she scrambled to ring up a bullshit order to get the register open before anyone noticed. The register popped open with an audible ‘ding’, which got the attention of one of the nearby diners. In a panic, Imogen scooped up as much money as she could grab and shoved it into the shitty rehab-issued sports bra she was still wearing under her t-shirt.

 

“Hey!” A man’s voice boomed, causing Imogen to jump out of her skin. She hauled ass back over the counter, taking off towards the door. “Stop right there!” Imogen kept running, her heart pounding in her throat.

 

“ _Hey!_ ” She could see that he was holding up his phone, pointing the camera right at her. _Shit._ If she could have, Imogen would have slapped it right out of his hand. But, she was too focused on making it through the door. She didn’t even stop to open it, using her power to bull rush through the glass. It shattered in a crystal rain around her, leaving her with nicks and scrapes and glass in her hair. Thankfully she had screwed her eyes shut before the impact, so she managed to escape being blinded.

 

Still, she took off down the street, running as fast than her usual, surprisingly agile for her emaciated frame. Imogen stopped in an alley a few streets over, mainly to count her cash and to triage her wounds. There she noticed a large wound on her arm that was a little bit deeper than she would have liked.

 

“Fuck.” She muttered, looking down at the streaks of blood streaming down the limb. The drops were collecting in her palm, but it didn’t seem life threatening. “What do I do?”

 

It took her a minute of calming down to think that she should probably rip off a section of her shirt to use as a bandage until she could find something a bit better, whenever that would be. At the moment she knew she needed to get away as fast as she could. That dude had _video_ of the robbery. “Great way to start off my new life.”

 

Imogen struggled to pull at the fabric before it finally gave, and she tied the scrap around the bloody wound. After successfully patching it up, she placed her back against the brick wall and slid down to the dirty ground. There were a few discarded needles and empty dime bags around the area, which only made her cravings worse. Food could wait… she really needed a fix.

 

If only she had her cell phone on her. She had contacts out the wazoo on it, people who could hook her up in a matter of minutes. However, she didn’t have her cell phone and this wasn’t Dayton. Hell, she couldn’t remember the last time she was in Akron. She was starting all over. Finding contacts in a new city wasn’t going to be easy, but every city had a similar rhythm. Every town has the same sort of spots that the seediest of people like to congregate in, it was just a matter of finding them.

 

It was only a matter of minutes before she found the local high school and after spending enough time hanging around the edge of campus, she managed to score five pops of Addy for forty bucks. It was a little steep for her budget, especially considering she prefered thirties over the twenties she had in her hand, but it was _something_ . She popped one of the pills immediately, sitting underneath a tree with her eyes closed while the high came over her. Speed always made her feel _good_ . Her thinking felt clearer, her movements sharper… everything seemed more _real_. That, and she didn’t feel so damn empty inside.

 

After a few moments, she pulled the remaining money out of her bra to count it. There was no telling when the next time she would be able to get more would be, and keeping the funds high for drugs seemed to be the best option at the moment. But… There was always the problem of _food_. Her stomach was painfully empty now, and even the amphetamines couldn’t keep the hunger pains at bay. With a frown, Imogen stood up to go find somewhere to relieve the acidic twisting in her gut.

 

On her walk, she found a local all-you-can-eat buffet. The bright colors and lights drew her in, her stomach growling as she caught a whiff of their wares as she walked on by. A sign in the window declared that kids eat free, and she was small and slight enough to pass, but the small print added the killer words: ‘with the purchase of an adult meal.’ Still, the quantity of food was all too tempting. After a moment of contemplating Imogen decided to bite the bullet and open the door.

 

Inside they were blasting the air conditioning even though it was still cold outside. The chill hit Imogen all at once, making her skin hurt as it puckered into goosebumps. People were beginning to stare at her, mainly because she was dirty and bloody and wearing a torn rehab shirt. Still, she shrugged them off and began to pile her plate high with food. She was ravenous, tearing into an overcooked sirloin steak with an insatiable hunger, barely using her fork and knife.

 

 _Fuck everyone. I’m an at-risk youth_. Imogen thought as she began digging into the mashed potatoes on her plate. She was on her third helping of food when she noticed someone conversing with an employee, whispering and pointing in her general direction. For a moment she wished that she had super hearing instead of flight, but after a few seconds it was quite obvious that someone had recognized her from the McDonald’s video.

 

 _Shit, shit. SHIT._ Imogen got up, not bothering to clean herself up, and took off out the door and down the road. Her stomach was painfully full now. She wasn’t running as fast for fear of throwing up, but she was terrified. If she got caught _now_ , she’d feel like an ass. No one chased after her though. Either they didn’t care enough, or they felt sorry for her. Either way it only made her feel more pathetic.

 

She stood on a street corner near a Wal-Mart, desperately just wanting a shower and a pair of clean clothes. Changing would cut into her drug money, but… She couldn’t last on the streets wearing shorts and a torn t-shirt. Imogen sighed heavily and walked towards the store, wondering what happened to the days when she wouldn’t be caught dead wearing clothes from a fucking Wal-Mart.

 

 _Maybe I should just pimp myself out. I could get money that way._ She thought as she wandered into the store, looking around to find something or other that would be better than the shitty clothes she was wearing now. The idea made her cringe. She barely liked it when Jeremy touched her. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have sex with strangers for money. But… there had to be a reason why so many junkies turned to it. It pays the bills…

 

She wandered over to the boy’s department, picking out a pair of too-big sweatpants and a solid colored T shirt. She paid for her wares and wandered off to the bathroom to sponge off and change. The bathroom was too bright and smelled like urine and stale period funk, making her skin crawl as she used the brown paper towels and hand soap to give herself a hobo shower. Once she smelled less like a farm, she pulled the shirt on and slipped into the pants.

 

She was delighted to find that boy sweatpants have _pockets_ , which were ideal for carrying her money and drugs so that she didn’t have to keep them trapped in her bra. Things were looking up, at least for a moment, and she still had enough money leftover to buy another five pops of Addy when she needed them.

 

Speaking of the drugs, she popped another one of the pills and washed it down with stale-tasting sink water. The carbs from dinner were hitting her like a truck and Speed was the only thing that could keep her going. She didn’t want to turn to streetwalking if she didn’t have to. The prospect of that made her nearly sick to her stomach. The only other option she could come up with was trying to get into the drug trade. If she could sell, she could stay alive.

 

The walk downtown took less time than she thought it would, mainly because Imogen still hadn’t gotten used to her newfound powers. It was beginning to get dark, the rush hour traffic giving way into the stillness of night. The few clubs were starting to wake up, blasting music and lights out their doors while intimidating looking bouncers stood guard. There was bound to be someone in any of those places that could help her out, but she looked like she was 12 and no one could make a convincing fake for her situation. She knew. Jeremy had tried.

  
Still, she asked around. There was a name she vaguely remembered in the back of her head, the name of some group that supplied to a few of her friends, one that came up in a few of the short conversations she had with the various thugs on the street. It was a lead, even if it was a teensy-weensy one, and if she had a even a minor connection it could get her foot in the door.


	6. Akron 2

Imogen wandered down one of the back alleys, this one dirtier than the last, nearly plunged in a veil of darkness. She wished for a moment that she had purchased a sweatshirt when she had been out shopping, but there was a large possibility that the shivers were coming from her high.

 

She waited around, standing with her arms crossed in front of her chest for a while. The sounds of the city nearly lulled her to sleep, her back pressed to the bricks, but she was pulled out of it by a voice.

 

“You’re a little young to be out here,” a man said. He was standing on the other end of the alley, and nearly stuck out like a sore thumb. He was wearing a pair of khakis and a button-down shirt in a pristine white. His dark hair was closely cropped and his face clean-shaven, but what made him stand out the most of all was the pair of sunglasses he was wearing in the dead of night. “But I ain’t judging. What can I get for ya?”

 

Imogen’s mouth went dry. There was a lump formed deep in her throat that was choking off her words, making her stammer in front of the man. Not a good first impression in the slightest. “I… I’m old enough.” She puffed up her cheeks and walked over to the man, standing probably over a foot shorter than him.

 

“Speed is my drug of choice, but I’m not picky. At the moment? I want a job. I want in on the cut. I can work.” The man nearly laughed at her. He choked back a snicker and looked her up and down while she tried to look as tough as possible.

 

“Oh? You don’t look like the kind of muscle we usually hire.” He snickered again, but didn’t walk away. “You know what, I’ll oblige you. What’s your street resume? Keep it short and sweet.”

 

“Might not be muscle, but I know my way around a gun. My dad taught me.” Imogen nearly slapped herself in the face for adding that comment. Now she just looked even more like a dumb kid.

 

“We’ve got dozens of meatsacks who can pull a trigger, kid. You’re going to have to sell it harder than that.” She couldn’t see his eyes, but she could _feel_ him rolling them at her.

 

"No one suspects the cute little girl. Plus, it's easier to pander to the younger crowd when you're one of their peers. They make you take classes about that and shit. Peer pressure.” her confidence was wavering. This guy was breaking her down and he was barely even saying a word. She was just terrified that she would have to break down on her knees and beg for anything.

 

"You lookin' to be a high school dealer, then? Where do you go?" He paused, looking her up and down with a frown. "And y'might wanna forego the "cute", kid, you look like you ran through a meat grinder." This time, he really did snicker. All Imogen wanted to do was punch this bastard in his smug face– to show him that she could belong.

 

"You don't even know what i've been through these past few days. I'm new in town. I'll go wherever you need me. Supply and demand." Now, she was begging. It was clear and plainly evident in her voice. She was desperate; desperate for a fix and desperate to not have to sleep in a back alley full of kiddy diddling crackheads.

 

"We've got plenty of street runners. You ain't gonna convince me by quoting your AP Economics textbook at me, missy." He was getting short with her, it was obvious that if she wasn’t going to buy something soon he was probably going to walk away. But still he stayed, sighing as he looked at her with a furrowed brow.

 

"Look, kid, I see you, and I see a runaway who's dead broke, got a bad need for a fix, tryin' get in at the ground floor for an easy deal or to skim some off the take. We don't have room in our organization for those kinds of people." That was when her heart fell out of her chest. It looked like everything was going to come crashing down. His look of pure condescension, even through the glasses, made her want to puke.

 

“For fuck’s sake! I’m not some pussy shit. I can _do_ this!” She took a step back, her hands balled into fists so tight that they hurt. “I can sell the drugs.”

 

"Or, you can take the drugs you're supposed to be selling for us, and fuck off to another city. Hell, kid, how sheltered are you?"

 

"I'm not going to steal the drugs! I swear to fuck.” She paused, nearly in tears from her intense frustration. “You're one annoying bastard, you know that?" One tear rolled down her cheek, and she brushed it away before another could follow it.

 

"Hey, trust no fucker." He cracked a smile and stuck a hand in his pocket. All she wanted to do was slap the smug look off of him. This was her last chance and he was fucking her over.

 

"I really want to fucking stab you right now, you know that right? What the fuck am I supposed to do now?” She pouted, kicking the wall with a frustrated scream. “Got no phone, don't know where the fuck I am, and if I go home, I get shipped back to Camp Satan rehab! Gimme a chance. Trial basis!" Imogen kicked the wall harder, this time hard enough to hurt.

 

"You think a criminal drug ring is a fuckin' CHARITY, kid? Ugh, fuck off. Seriously. Try the goddamn Salvation fuckin' Army." She was getting angrier and angrier, her hands shaking hard.

 

“Fuck…” She whispered under her breath before fishing another pill out of the pocket of her sweatpants. Imogen tried to pop it, missing her mouth in the process. She frowned and groaned, then put the pill back in her pocket to save for later.

 

"Already fucked up this bad and you still ain't thinkin' about getting clean? Christ, kid." The man pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head with another pitying glance.

 

"Don't need to get clean, fuck that shit.” Shit, what she would give for a cigarette right now. “And it's a bit hypocritical of you to tell me not to ruin my life.”

 

"Hey, you don't see me on the streets beggin' for a cut of the take. I got financial security." The smarmy grin on his face made Imogen fuckin scream. It was shrill and full of frustration and sounded akin to a cat being murdered.

 

"You're a dickfucker, you know that?” She sighed heavily, turning around to face the wall. She pressed her forehead against the bricks and tried so hard not to cry. “At least give me some of the good shit.”

 

"How much cash you got?" He lifted his head, but made no strides towards the girl.

 

“Forty-one dollars and sixty-two cents.”

 

"Know your funds down to the cent, huh? Weirdo." He chuckled a bit, then went looking in his pockets.

 

"Says the guy wearing those shoes." She snickered, turning back around slowly.

 

"These shoes are for kickin'. I wear my dinner party shoes when I'm off the clock, thank-you-very-much."

 

“ _Sure_.”

 

"I'll give you, eh, I'll give you three grams for the forty. Fifty percent, cut with caffeine. Not the watered down fifteens you'll get from the streeties cut with citric acid, laxatives, and fuck else.” He tossed a bag at her, a cross frown on his face. “I'm a distributor, kid, not a dealer, and this's the only generosity you'll be seein' out of me."

 

"I'll take it. Shit, I'm in no position to argue. but you're really arguing your fashion choices with a punk-ass kid." She snickered, though it sounded half-hearted and dry.

 

"Hey, I gotta rise up when somebody criticizes my aesthetics." He laughed, though it felt more like he was laughing with her than at her. Maybe he wasn’t _so_ bad, but she still wanted to punch him in the dick. "Look, kid. Here's my number. If you find yourself back on your feet and you've got a little more rep under your belt, I'll think about it."

 

"You'll see. I'll fucking show you." Imogen took the card with a frown, wondering how the fuck she would manage to meet his expectations. Hell, she didn’t even know how she would phone him if she did. She shoved her hands in her pockets as she turned around, then took off in a run. She had no intended destination, no idea where she was even going. Still, she ran, letting the wind course through her hair.

 

After a bit of running, her buzz began to taper off, leaving her feeling sluggish and tired all alone in the city. Everything was numb– she didn’t feel like a _person_. It was taking everything that she had to not just snort everything she had in her pocket– the sweetest shit she had seen in her life. She had to make it last because now she was broke and two seconds away from turning tricks on the street corner for a meal.

 

"This is bullshit." Imogen said as she kicked a rock on the side of the road, her pitch scratching her throat raw. Her mouth felt like it was full of sand and rocks and glass. Actually, she wasn’t sure that there _wasn’t_ glass in her mouth. She _did_ go through a window earlier.

 

Imogen popped another one of the pills, saving the powder for another day. She needed to keep going for a little bit longer before she could find somewhere to crash, though she was dreading that. The third Adderall of the day felt nearly ineffective, though she didn’t know if that was from fatigue or from increased tolerance.

 

A blistering headache came creeping up on her from the back of her skull, her brain crying out for much-needed sleep. The pain was demanding that she pass out on a slide at a nearby park, but it was slightly wet at the bottom and the plastic didn’t look like it would provide adequate lumbar support.  

  
Still, she sat. The Adderall pushed an edge to every sensation, making her sickly aware of the dampness in her shorts; too cold to feel like she pissed her pants but still itchy and icy and uncomfortable. Every thump in her head felt like needles being shoved deeper and deeper into her gray matter. Being alive was pure torture. Before she passed out, she contemplated adding some serious downers to her repertoire.


	7. Akron 3

Her sleep was thin and fitful; she barely felt rested when she woke. Her head was pounding and  _ holy shit _ there was a knife being pressed to her throat. In front of her stood a man with crazy eyes, his clothing dirtier and more tattered than hers. It was obvious that he was hopped up on something, and now he was going to murder her and probably rape her corpse. 

 

“Gimmeall… Gimme all your… YOUR MONEY!” He screamed at her, sending tobacco-stained spittle into her face. She wanted to hurl, but the retching motion would rip her throat open against the cheap metal of the five-dollar discount knife the jackass was holding. 

 

“Fuck, not  _ today _ .” She kicked the man in the shins, sending him off balance and landing on the ground with his knife a few feet away from him. He scrambled towards it, but she took off running towards him, angling her shoulder like a linebacker. The sprint bowled the junkie over, making him fall flat on his ass while Imogen went soaring into the air. 

 

… definitely not a bad trip, this time.

 

“What  _ is _ this shit?” Imogen screamed, feeling nausea deep in the pits of her stomach as she flew above the playground. 

 

After a brief moment of sleep-addled confusion, Imogen plummeted to the ground. There was a  _ whumph  _ of mulch rising into the air, followed by her coughing through the cloud of dust swirling from the newly-created crater. Her new and clean clothes were pretty much shit now, but she couldn’t feel too upset for long because the junkie was stumbling back to his feet. In a panic, she began running towards him, kicking him hard in the stomach using the momentum of her power. 

 

He let out a large ‘oof’ as his body hit one of the metal bars on the playground, the impact punctuated by a sickening crack. The man groaned, then began hurling before passing out in his own sick. 

 

"You gross fucker." She spat, kicking him again in the ribs. 

 

The curled-up junkie didn’t have much to say in response, emitting a pained grunt.

 

The sun was beginning to rise, and she was about to leave. Before she took off, though, she bent down to loot the man’s pockets. There she found a ten dollar bill, a filthy-looking sharp, and a bag of what looked to be shitty heroin. She was careful to dispose of the syringe in a trash can while avoiding pricking her fingers. Imogen knew she was a shit human being, but she wasn’t the kind of shit human being to leave this dude’s disease rocket on a playground meant for kids. 

 

Beating the junkie gave her a huge rush, she felt like she was flying, in the figurative sense. After a running start, though, she  _ was _ flying. She soared, letting the early morning air run over her skin and breeze against her face. It felt right and she felt  _ powerful _ . This was her, now she was something  _ more _ . Everything was swirling through her mind at once until it finally clicked.  _ This. _ This was her claim to fame. She came crashing to the ground, leaving another crater in the sidewalk and took off running again. 

 

She found a gas station on her trek and went into the bathroom, hoping to tidy herself up again and grab a snack or two. The dude working the counter seemed tired, he didn’t give two fucks as she disappeared into the back of the store, looking over the display of chips before finding a bag of Doritos, some absurd ranch-dipped hot wings flavor declaring itself to be JACKED. She shrugged and shoved it into the massive pockets of her sweatpants and walked out, the cashier barely even blinking an eye. 

 

Once she got outside, she walked around until she found a bench so that she could munch on her JACKED breakfast. The chips kind of sucked in comparison to the normal nacho cheese, or even the cool ranch, but hey. It was food. She reached a clean hand into her pocket and pulled out the contents. There were a few coins, actually enough for a payphone if she could manage to find one, and her small haul of drugs.

 

Her hands were twitching in the I-really-need-a-fix way, so she poured the smallest bit of the white powder on the back of her and and snorted it, just to tide her over. It could be a long walk until she found a payphone, after all you don’t see many of them around anymore.

 

The gas station happened to have one, and it was still miraculously in working order. Imogen’s hands shook as she fed in the quarters, carefully punching in the number digit by digit so that she didn’t get it wrong. The phone rang three times before he picked up, voice thick with grog and sleep. 

 

"Uuungh, who the FUCK is this, it's six in the goddamn morning." He sounded angry, and that didn’t bode well for her. Imogen needed him in a good mood– needed to butter him up and get on his good side. 

 

"Fuck, you're still as unpleasant now as you were last night." Or, she could be just as angry back at him.

 

"Wow, I didn't fucking give you my number so you could crank call my ass at the break of dawn. The fuck you want?" Imogen paused, trying to figure out what she would say before she just blurted out bullshit like ‘I fuckin fly.’

 

"I'm not crank calling you, fuckhole. I need to know if you know of any capes in town!" 

 

_ Nailed it. _

 

"The fuck you want to know that for? In Akron we got a few small gangs. PRT office is just a municipal building downtown." She could pretty much envision him rubbing the sleep out of his eyes while he frowned at her stupidity. Actually, she wondered if he slept with the sunglasses on.

 

"The boss for our gang is a cape, we have a few more. It's quiet here, all things considered. You want capes, you go to fuckin' Cleveland.”

 

“Cleveland…” she echoed him, pressing three fingers to her lips with a sigh.

 

"But enough yammering. The fuck you askin' me for?”

 

"Why the fuck do you think I'm asking? Shit's gotten freaky and I'm 90% sure the drugs aren't what's making me fly." There, she said it. It was real. It was real and now this dude who she didn’ even know was probably going to think she was crazy.

 

"Shit, kid, did you have some fuckin' bad trip or something? I swear the stuff I gave you was clean." He seemed honest, at least. Then again, she knew deep in her  _ soul _ that it wasn’t a hallucination. The craters were there. They were real.

 

"It's not a bad trip. I swear one second I was running and then I was in the goddamn air. There's a crater near the gas station if you don't believe me."

 

"Fuck, kid."

 

“Yeah. Fuck.” Imogen sighed and brushed her tangled and dirty bangs off of her face over her forehead. Now she was feeling nauseous, even with the slight buzz of the clean speed she snorted. 

 

"Well, assuming you can actually fly, meet me down behind the Canton Laundromat in fifteen. 'bout two blocks from where we met up last night."

 

There. There it was: her big break. He believed her, and for a moment she had a glimmer of hope that something would be going right in her miserable fucking life. "I'll be there. You better not be fucking with me."

 

“See you in a few, kid.” The phone beeped to let her know that the call had ended, and barely a second later she slammed the phone on the receiver and booked it towards the laundromat. She didn’t care how fast she was going, didn’t care that she had launched and was flying while people stopped and stared. She was going too fast for anyone to capture anything on their phone cameras– everything just turned out blurry.

 

It took ten minutes to find the laundromat, and when she landed she pretty much destroyed a whole 2.5 parking spots. After examining her handiwork, Imogen concluded that her power must not have a soft landing option. Oh well. She looked over after sticking the landing to see Shades sitting there next to a flashy convertible. He tipped his sunglasses down and looked Imogen up and down, giving a whistle before putting them back up.

 

"Well goddamn. Thanks for not hitting my car, kiddo." She looked at the car after his comment, wondering if maybe next time she  _ should _ hit it. The thought quickly fell to the back of her mind, after all she wasn’t  _ that _ much of an asshole.

 

"Told you it fucking wasn't a goddamn bad trip.” She spat with a quick wipe of her nose. The action would have cleared any powder that may have been caked to her nostrils, but made her feel grosser overall. Shades just shrugged, then pointed in the direction of a door behind them.

 

"Well, c'mon in. Boss'll be here soon." He gestured for her to follow him and she obliged, nodding her head and shutting her mouth before she could say anything else stupid. The back of the laundromat that he led her into was dingy looking, on the side of grimy. It had a cheap looking fold-out table, a sink, a fridge, and a bulky wall safe. 

 

Shades opened the fridge and rummaged around a bit, before deciding on a bottle of water. He cracked the top and took a few sips, then looked over to Imogen and sighed. “Yo, you want anything?” His offer seemed to be almost an afterthought, but she didn’t care too much. Beggars can’t be choosers.

 

"Whaddya got?" She lifted up her head, trying to see into the fridge from where she was. Between her height and Shades’ position though, she couldn’t see jack shit. 

 

"Water, buncha soda, crappy beer." He grimaced a little. "The milk's probably bad." He lifted the jug out of the fridge and she nodded in agreement. There were visible chunks, so it was definitely bad. Shades tossed it into a nearby trash can and shook his head in disgust.

 

"Milk tastes like shit anyway. Gimme a soda. Please." Imogen could feel the eye roll from behind Shades’ glasses, but he opened the fridge anyway and tossed her a can of Pepsi. She placed it down on the table first and tapped the top a few times. Still, she made sure to tilt it  _ towards _ Shades just in case it did explode.

 

The crack of the soda can opening was obscured by the back door opening. Three men walked inside. The one in the center was short and stocky, wearing a leather coat patched with all sorts of bloodstained fabric scraps. His face was heavily scarred, giving him a gruff and intimidating look. Couple that with one cloudy eye, pointing in the wrong direction and his fucked up teeth… he looked downright scary. He was flanked by two disinterested-looking gangbangers dressed like typical thugs. Compared to these fucks, Shades looked like a Calvin Klein model.

 

Shades stood up and took a step towards the center man, extending an open cigar case to him in an offering. "Morn', Boss. Here's the kid."

 

Imogen felt the man’s wandering gaze narrow in on her, causing her to swallow hard. Still, she tried to appear tough, frowning and making a pouty face. “I’m  _ not _ a kid!”

 

"You fuckin' with me, Shades?" The boss grumbled. "Bitch don't look like she's even outta high school yet."

 

_ Well, he’s not wrong. _

 

"You see that fuckin' crater out there in the lot?” Shades pointed out the window, and the boss nodded. Imogen side-eyed to take a peek herself. Damn, it was big. "You said we needed muscle to edge into Cleveland. Well, I'm delivering."

 

"Yeah! I'm not just some punk-ass kid." Her tone was overconfident, probably a side effect of the sweet shit she had snorted, and came off as cocky and annoying.

 

"I'll judge that for myself," the boss said, his brow furrowed as he puffed on a lit cigar. The smoke swirled around in the room, creating a smoky haze. That was probably the source of the grime in the laundromat’s back room, and she was almost tempted to ask for a light. "The name’s Tremor. Step on outside, kid, let's see what you got."

 

"All right." Imogen stood up to follow the men outside, her arms crossed over her chest in a futile attempt to look tough. She just looked pathetic, but the men were more interested in what tricks she had up her sleeve than what kind of attitude she was packing.

 

"You're a flyer, yeah? Let's see how fast you can go."

 

“Pretty fuckin’ fast.” She replied, giving a smile before taking off in a spring down the parking lot. She  _ was _ fast, and even faster when she managed to take flight. Her body was easy to maneuver in flight. She could switch directions and do loops and corkscrews in the air like some kind of graceful fuckin bird. It felt freeing– exhilarating even. After showing off and performing all sorts of tricks, she went in a sharp dive for the ground. When she made impact, the resulting crater was even larger than the first. The dust settled, and the boss nodded slowly. 

 

"Not bad, not bad." He clapped once, then twice.

 

"Satisfied, Boss?" Shades asked.

 

"Yeah, yeah, delivered as promised, don't hafta rub it in." Boss griped in response. He paused, then turned towards the blonde. "So, you want in, huh? I'm willing to entertain it."

 

“Yes, sir.” She said with a nod.

 

"What's in it for you?" He leaned in close, so much so that she could smell the cigar and decay on his breath. 

 

"I'm only asking for drugs and shelter. And some cash. Just enough to get by." She was being truthful. All she wanted to do was avoid juvie, rehab, and being stuck on the streets. However, Shades wasn’t content with her response.

 

"Kid, step your ambition up! You've got motherfuckin' superpowers! Dream big!" She had never thought about it before. At home she pretty much had the whole world at her fingertips. Money, power, influence… at least in her own small pond called  _ high school _ . But here, this was the  _ real _ world. Now she could have anything her heart desired.

 

The boss nodded, looking at her meaningfully. "Like hell I'm satisfied running this shitheap. Soon's we get enough firepower and rep, we're takin' shit to the big city."

 

"Ha. Most people don't particularly see much potential in me," she says with a long glare at Shades, "I guess I never expected it for myself, but moving up in the world would be nice." 

 

"Well, if you want a slice of somethin' bigger and better, shack up with us and y'ain't gonna be disappointed." She stepped forward, holding out her hand for the boss to shake. He took it, his handshake too firm and too rough for her thin arms. 

 

“I heard you were a fuckin’ cape too. What’s your party trick?” She cracked a smile, and Tremor returned it. He pointed at the two craters in the lot, both of which Shades was staring at, most likely to determine how much it would cost to fix them. The rubble began to hover above the ground, swirling and dancing in the air. Their movements started to get more erratic, vibrating and twitching in a frenzy. Tremor lifted his hand and clenched his fist, causing the largest of the asphalt chunks to explode into a rain of shrapnel.

 

“Hey.  _ Hey! _ Watch my car,  _ asshole _ .” Shades said, running off towards the convertible. 

 

“Shut up about your car already.” Imogen snickered. Tremor joined in the laughter as well, until Shades walked back over with a frown.

 

“It’s a nice car.” He muttered, crossing his arms over his chest in his own sort of pout. The car was already forgotten by Imogen, who was running over to the craters to look at all the dust. 

 

“Wow! That’s pretty fucking cool!” She exclaimed, turning back around to face both Tremor and Shades. The latter rolled his eyes behind the glasses and punched her lightly in the shoulder.

 

“No one likes a suck up.”

 

"Nobody likes a fuckwad with ugly shoes." Imogen stuck her tongue out, then looked back towards the boss. They started walking back inside of the building, Shades nearly fuming out his ears.


	8. Akron 4

"Lay off the newbie, Marc. Powers are fuckin' cool. Not that you'd know.” Tremor gave his own chuckle and Shades, or _Marc_ , began swearing and grumbling under his breath. They all sat back down at the table, Tremor still puffing on his cigar as he kicked his feet up on the piece of furniture. Shades looked annoyed at him, even though the table was cheap and shitty. Imogen wondered if it was that shitty because it was cheaper to replace when someone or other wrecked it. Seemed like a logical conclusion. She was lost in thought until her attention was brought back to the conversation by Tremor pulling a wad of bills out of his coat pocket. He dangled them in front of Shades, who still just looked annoyed. "Take new kid out for some gear an' basic necessities, meet us back at the base by dinner."

 

A wide grin cracked out onto Imogen’s face, wide from ear-to-ear. She leaned over and elbowed Shades in the ribs, cackling the entire time. "Looks like we're about to be best fuckin buddies, Shades." He groaned in response, fishing his keys out of his pocket before he stood up.

 

"Let's fuckin' go on a shopping spree, kiddo. Always wanted to be a dad.” She was absolutely _certain_ this time that he was rolling his eyes at her; it was practically dripping in his voice. Still, she smiled, following him towards the door.

 

"I'm itching to get out of these cheap-ass clothes." He looked her up and down once more, then nodded. He agreed that she looked like _shit_.

 

"Later, fuckers. You guys have fun, now. Don't spend it all in one place." Tremor waved at the two, walking towards the other door with the two mooks flanking him once more. Imogen and Shades made their way back outside, and it seemed like for a moment the sun was shining a little brighter.

 

"C'mon, we ain't got all day." Shades said, pulling Imogen back to reality. She hadn’t even realized that she had zoned out. She’d probably need another fix soon. With a nod of her head, she began to follow Shades towards the car. He unlocked it, and she wasted no time throwing the door open and sliding inside. Imogen side-eyed Shades while he started up the car, then threw her feet up onto the dashboard to stretch out.

 

"I fucking KNEW that was going to happen." Her shit-eating grin grew just a little bit wider. "Let's save that for when you get some shoes that AREN'T caked with mud, shall we?"

 

She snickered and took her feet down, though reluctantly. When he didn’t immediately come over with baby wipes and a frown, she felt a little disappointed. "Fine. you're an uptight fuckin’ bastard aren't you?"

 

"Hey, I like my car to be clean, jackass." He made multiple attempts to get out of the parking lot without hitting either of the potholes or any of the resulting shrapnel, to little success. It was awkward, and every jerk of the car nearly made her hurl.

 

"You're the jackass... Jackass." After a long two minutes, he managed to wrangle out and pull off towards the mall.

 

"So, what's on the shopping list? If I remember right, you ain't got fuck-all, so let's get you a couple days' worth of clothes. You're gonna need a phone to keep up with us, obviously. New shoes, of course. Some materials for a cape outfit, definitely." He was cruising at a pretty fast speed, but he seemed to have an innate control for the car. "What'm I missing here?"

 

"I'm going to need a tacky name, aren't I?"

 

"Heh, yeah. The badass ones are probably already taken."

 

"Can't get much tackier than Shades, though," Imogen snickered, and Shades just groaned.

 

"Uh, you came up with that nickname, not me. You heard the boss, I'm Marc." She cracked another smile, her eyes still glued out the window.

 

"Imogen. Though, I like Shades better for you." He groaned again, which only caused her to laugh louder.

 

"Oh come on. This is fun. You, me, the car, some dru– ”

 

"Look, I'm not gonna judge, but PLEASE don't start mainlining speed in my passenger seat."

 

Imogen immediately frowned, crossing her arms over her chest with a perfected princess pout. “Fine. You're pretty stiff for working in the fuckin' drug trade."

 

"There's a time for business and there's a time to cut loose, kid." Deep down, she knew that he was right. But damnnit if she didn’t feel like a million fucking dollars at the moment. She only wanted to add to her fantastic high. They soon pulled up to Summit Mall, and Shades parked almost expertly. "Looks like we're here," he said, handing her the wad of bills. "Go fuckin' nuts, I guess."

 

"Whatever. So clothes and shoes and a phone. That's a relief. Left mine back at camp hell." Imogen hopped out of the car and slammed the door behind her, catching a quick glimpse of herself in the side mirror of the car. She looked like Hell, and even that was an understatement. Her hair was dry and dull, tangled and dirty. Her eyes were rimmed in heavy dark circles, her body looked emaciated and frail. The Wal-Mart clothes hung on her awkwardly, as they were too big all over. To top it all off she had dirt on her and was covered head to toe in assorted glass scratches. It was a severe hit to her self-esteem. She used to spend every day primping and obsessing over fashion magazines. Looking good had always been part of _her_ , and now that was gone.

 

The wad of cash contained something close to nine hundred dollars, and the first thing she could think of was the sheer amount of coke she could buy. But she knew she had to maintain focus. Now that she had a squad, the drugs could come at any time. The current mission was for clothes.

 

She found one of her favorite stores rather quickly, and went to town grabbing a few outfit’s worth of stylish clothes off of the racks. She felt too _dirty_ to try any of them on, so she was really just hoping that they would look good. After much deliberation, she settled on a few pairs of quality jeans, some comfy and super soft sweatpants, a dress, a jacket, and a few different t-shirts. For shoes, she grabbed a nice pair of brown boots. Something that would hold up well. After some wandering, window shopping for things she didn’t really want or need, she was stopped by a tap on the shoulder. She whipped around, her heart beating out of her chest. Her first assumption had been that it was a security guard who recognized her from the McDonald’s video, but it was just Shades.

 

"Hey, kid, you keep bitchin' about my shoes, how 'bout you go pick me out some new ones?" Her heart took a moment to stop racing, or at least to return to its normal Speed-addled cadance. She stared at him blankly, blinking a few times before realizing what he just said.

 

“Sure.” She replied, a grin cracking out on her face. Shades caught on quickly and crossed his arms over his chest.

 

"If you pull out a pair of Crocs I'm gonna fuckin' ditch your ass here."

 

“So, Uggs it is then.” He reached a hand out, knocking her off balance with a gentle shove to the shoulder.

 

"You need a running start to fly, right? I'm gonna drive our fuckin’ car off a bridge." Imogen returned the shove, barely moving him.

 

"That'll take you out too, you fuckin' moron. Get those." She was pointing to a pair of brown leather shoes, Italian. They were quite stylish, on the higher end of the price scale, and stood out among the lesser shoes on the display.

 

"Hey, if it gets rid of you, worthy sacrifice." He let out a small chuckle before finding a box of the shoes in his size. After trying them on, he nodded in satisfaction.

 

“Hey. I got you points with your boss.” She crossed her arms over her chest, then pointed to the shoes. “Told you they were nice.”

 

“Shut _up_.” Shades slipped the shoes back into the box and started walking off to the checkout without her.

 

“You can’t outrun me, old man.” Imogen said as she jogged back up to him. He was already pulling out a card to hand to the cashier, trying his hardest to ignore her.

 

“I’m not _old_.”

 

“Sure, grandpa.” She laughed a bit, poking him in the side while he rolled his eyes. It was just his luck that the boss would stick him with a petulant child.

 

"Save enough to grab an iPhone from the Apple store, yeah? Don't think you're old enough to get a service plan, but I can probably finagle you onto mine." He asked her, catching her off-guard.

 

"Looks like you're pretty much my fuckin’ daddy now." She stuck out her tongue as they walked off in the direction of the Apple store, which only made Shades roll his eyes harder.

 

“Ew. Shaddup and let’s fuckin' finish here.”

 

“Fine.” Imogen crossed her arms over her chest and sighed heavily as they walked inside. She was starting to hit a crash, and it was itching deep in her skin. All she wanted to do was get out and snort another line. Shit, things were good but being high was _great_.

 

Getting a phone was easy, at least it was easy to let Shades take care of it while she wandered around the store and looked at the various MacBooks lying around on display. "We should swing by here when you get some more dough." He said as he appeared behind her shoulder, handing her an iPhone 3G. "Get a laptop and Boss might finally cave and get wi-fi for the base."

 

"You don't have wi-fi? Are you in the fuckin’ stone age?" Imogen laughed a bit, turning around to lean on the table as she looked up at Shades. He wasn’t _so_ bad.

 

"Hey, hey, I've been bitchin' about it for months."

 

"Holy fuck is that backwards. He's gotta cave eventually." Imogen pushed herself off of the table and started heading towards the entrance, Shades following close next to her. She was carrying her bags, though the combined weight was beginning to strain her near-atrophied muscles.

 

"Somethin' about everybody bein' too distracted at the meetings. Whatever." He shrugged, then raised an eyebrow as Imogen placed her bags on the floor. “I ain’t carrying that shit.”

 

“Calm your tits. I need to piss.” Imogen patted Shades on the back, then walked towards the restrooms. “Just watch them. I’ll be right back.”

 

The bathroom was decently empty, which was ideal for her. Still, she pulled into a stall and locked the door behind her. She shimmied the plastic baggie out of her pockets and poured herself a _fat_ fucking line on her hand. Snorting speed in a mall bathroom wasn’t ideal, but she needed that next bump– the next sweet fix that would take her day from blissful to fucking _Nirvana_.

 

After clearing her nostrils, Imogen finally sat down to piss. She thumbed through her new phone, smiling a little at the fact that Shades had pre-programmed all the needed numbers into it. She clicked on the contact labeled ‘Marc Patterson’ and giggled as she changed it to ‘Shades.’ After fucking around for long enough, she cleaned up and exited the bathroom.

 

“Jesus, you took for-fucking-ever.” Shades commented. Imogen raised an eyebrow as she noticed that he was now carrying her bags along with his. _What a softy_. "Y'wanna get a haircut or something? There's a salon here, might not be a bad idea if there are people looking for ya."

 

She could tell that he was being nice. He really meant, ‘Hey kid you look like shit,’ and Imogen couldn’t really argue. "Yeah. probably a good idea. Plus the shampoo they had at rehab fried my ends."

 

"Fuuck, if it's anything like the stuff they put on your head in jail, you have my sympathies. Let's get it done." She followed him through the entrance to the salon, taking slow steps. The air smelled like various hair chemicals, pretty standard salon stuff, and everyone seemed to be looking at her.

 

 _Yeah, I know I look like crap._ She thought as she walked up to the receptionist, who was busy filing her nails. “Hey… I need _this_ ,” She pointed to her head, “fixed.” Shades was watching from the waiting area, flipping idly through a People magazine because there was fucking nothing else to do.

 

“Yeah. Uh, go sit down over there. Shirley will be with you.” The receptionist pointed to an empty chair down the row, and Imogen nodded. There was a lump growing deep in her throat, and every time she tried to swallow she choked harder on it. This was the last bit of her transformation. After this, she was no longer Imogen Marshall the junkie. She was Imogen Marshall the _Dust Devil_.

 

She sat down gingerly in the chair, screwing her eyes shut as the stylist draped a hot pink cape on her. “Just do something.” She squeaked, her voice sounding childish and fearful. The stylist, Shirley, was a bit taken aback.

 

“How much do you want me to take off?” She asked. “Bangs? No bangs? I’m not just going to start indiscriminately cutting.” The woman sounded concerned, probably looked it too, but Imogen was too busy keeping her eyes closed that she wouldn’t have even known.

 

“Anything. Make it different.” She wasn’t getting much out of Imogen, so Shirley just sighed and decided to start. Every touch felt like too much to Imogen, to the point where having her hair shampooed was physically painful. The tangles finally started to come out, but she wasn’t planning on opening her eyes any time soon. She knew at this point that she had snorted too much; the anxiety building in her chest was not normal for anyone and everything around her felt like razors on her skin.

 

It seemed like it had been forever when Shirley finally pulled the cape off and clapped her hands. “There. Much better. Try to take care of your hair better, darling.” That comment stung, but Imogen opened her eyes. Her head felt so much lighter, mainly because _so much_ had come off. Her formerly waist-length strawberry blonde hair was now sitting in swirls on the floor. What was left was much shorter, the longest sections wisping just at chin-level. There was definitely product in it, giving it a messy-chic look that she liked the more that she looked at it. Still it was _different_ , down to the light fringe tickling her eyebrows.

 

Imogen hopped out of the chair, her heart beating out of her chest. The entire walk back to the reception area was full of her touching the ends, trying to figure out where the rest of it went. She walked up to Shades, tapping him on the shoulder to rouse him from the gripping read of _Glamour_. He looked up at her, then nodded approvingly.

 

"Wouldn't recognize ya from yesterday with this cut and getup."

 

"Told you I was fuckin' cute." She grinned from ear to ear, then did a small spin to show off her new look.

 

"Yeah... not going there. Let's head back." Imogen rolled her eyes at him, but nodded. He was still carrying her bags, with the exception of her new Coach purse. _That_ was perched on her shoulder, even if it currently had nothing in it. Her phone was in her hand, typing her name in the Google search bar. She was curious, did her parents even care enough to report her missing? Sure enough the second result was a news article with the previous year’s yearbook photo as the opening image.

 

**MISSING**

Imogen Marshall, Dayton teen reported missing Saturday May the 23rd.

Marshall was last seen in Allegheny National Forest and is not known to be violent.

Please call (937) 433 - 6729 if you have any information.

 

 _So, they do care._ She felt a great deal of a bit better now. Hell, she didn’t even put her feet on the dashboard during any point in the drive back into Akron proper. She was clean and well-clothed, with a rad new haircut. And maybe her parents would fucking appreciate her now that she was gone. Imogen was buzzing from the inside out as they got into town, and hopped out of the car as soon as Shades pulled into a spot in the parking lot of a busy family restaurant.

 

The pair headed straight to the back, Imogen following closely behind Shades so as not to get caught in anything she wasn’t supposed to. The back room was hazy with tobacco smoke, coming from all directions. A few goons and gangbangers were puffing on cigarettes, while Tremor rose from a leather recliner chewing on a fat cigar. He had his arms wide out, looking incredibly impressed.

 

"Hey, newbie, you look a damn sight better than you did earlier today. Glad t'see my cash didn't go to waste.”

 

"Yes sir. I clean up well. Being out in the woods for weeks doesn't exactly make anyone pretty." Imogen said with a smile and a slightly sassy salute.

 

"Siddown, siddown. Make y'self at home. Say hi to the new faces if you wanna, but we'll make formal introductions once everyone gets here." She nodded, taking a seat on a large leather couch near an ashtray. No one was snorting shit or fighting or fucking. Besides the rampant smoking, it seemed relatively calm. She figured that meant someone was keeping the lackeys on a relatively tight string, whether that person was Tremor or Shades.

 

Imogen managed to bum a cigarette off of one of the others, relishing in the sweet and acrid smoke invading her lungs. She flicked a few ashes into the tray as she looked around, studying everyone. A few plates of food were left out, all things that could be ordered upstairs. There wasn’t anything too fancy, but it was nice to know that they had that kind of influence.

 

No one in the room was paying much attention to her. She guessed it was because she was just some punk-ass kid sitting on a too-big couch and smoking cigarettes. Her clothes were pretty casual, even if they were sharp, and what little cleavage she had wasn’t hanging out. Hell, even if it was she was pretty sure no one would go for her. She was way too jailbaity. Still, Imogen scanned the room with her eyes to find someone who didn’t look too intimidating.

 

Her search came up with a kid who was standing on the edge of the room. He looked out of place, a little uncomfortable with all the conversation going on around him. _He barely looks older than me_. She thought as she rose from the couch, stubbing her cigarette out in the ashtray. He seemed like a good person to talk to, and as she walked up he looked incredibly relieved that someone had noticed him. He was double relieved that it was someone around his own age.

 

"Hey, 'sup, you new here? I'm Anthony."

 

"Imogen. And yeah. Just got picked up this morning." She brushed a lock of hair from her fringe out of her eyes, giving him a small smile. She didn’t say much else about it, not wanting to give out too much info. Anthony seemed excited to be talking to someone, especially someone that he now had _seniority_ over. He nodded and leaned against the counter, trying and failing to look cool and suave.

 

He leaned forward, taking his cigarette from his mouth, before asking, “Cool, cool. So, what’s your drug of choice?” Imogen giggled at him, covering her mouth with two fingers from her right hand. She looked up at him, then moved so she was standing next to him against the counter.

 

"Speed. Especially the good shit they got here. Man, there's nothing fuckin like it. You?"

 

"Ehhh, acid, mostly. I'm here for somethin' that'll knock me flat on my ass and keep me busy for a couple-a hours." He clicked his tongue and cheek, giving her a wink. His attempts at being cool were fucking hysterical to her, but she was relishing it. It had been a long time since someone had taken _that_ kind of interest in her.

 

“Acid?” She raised an eyebrow at him, letting out another giggle. “Do you see like… fuckin pink elephants and shit?"

 

"Nahh, nahh. But one time I was droppin', I saw myself in a mirror, stared for an hour until it vanished, and there was a whole new world out there. Breathtaking.” He paused and tapped his chin, a small grin cracking out over his lips. “'course, turns out I was actually looking through a window, but it goes." That caused Imogen to crack up. Her back pressed against the counter with each wave of laughter, the cool material rubbing against the skin of her lower back.

 

"That's fuckin great.” She managed to stop laughing so hard, and wiped a stray teardrop from the corner of her eye. “I've never touched the stuff. Haven't gotten around to it."

 

"It's hell on your productivity, man. Ain't got enough time to scrape up the cash for the next fix. So here I am, chillin' out half the time and workin' muscle the other. Don't pay awful." Imogen nodded in response, crossing her arms over her chest.

 

"Yeah? That's good to hear. Speed don't come cheap either. Especially when it's hell on your sleep schedule,” She pulled her bangs off of her forehead, onto the top of her head and sighed, “The other night I swear I could fuckin feel every molecule in the air on my goddamn skin."

 

"Yeah, I feel you. Tipped over a friend's ant farm onto my back couple-a trips ago. Shit turned bad WAY fast."

 

"Jesus. Fuckin hate ants." They both got quiet as more people filed into the room down the stairs. It seemed to be some sort of cue to start, because Tremor vaulted himself up onto the table and banged an empty beer bottle against the wood like a gavel. Imogen gave Anthony a small shrug and began walking towards the center of the room to get a better view. Everyone else was so much taller than her, she almost considered asking for a piggy-back ride.

 

"Alright, motherfuckers, now that you're all here, listen up. We gotta few orders of business to take care of." Tremor’s voice was booming in the room, getting everyone rallied up. He tossed the beer bottle to the ground, letting it shatter against the concrete floor. Imogen could hear Shades audibly sigh, and giggled to herself. "First and most importantly, let's talk about our competition." The ground began to grumble, the loudest voices coming from people who had already faced said competition.

 

"So for those of you who ain't in the loop, some gang that got the boot out of fuggin' Greenwich or whatever came runnin' to town with their tails between their legs and they're tryin' to take a bite outta our turf."

 

_So, is this when we kill them?_

 

"It's a pain in the ass, guerilla shit. They keep hitting our corners and scooping our customers, but they ain't ballsy enough to hit our primary distro centers." Tremor slammed his hand down on the table, the resounding bang scaring Imogen out of her skin. "So, I want four experienced dealers on the edge of our northeastern territory tonight, where they've hit us the hardest."

 

_Oh. Oh, shit._

 

"Quickfix, Freezerburn, Marc, and Vern. I want you to pick a buddy outta one of them. You're gonna stick with 'em, lay back if they get jumped." Imogen looked around, trying to figure out who the three other than Shades were. She saw two guys standing next to each other, one with frost-patterned tattoos and the other with a large wrench, nodding along with the boss’ speech. As for herself, she was sitting in a chair, drumming her fingers nervously against her shaking leg.

 

_Damn, I could really use another cigarette._

 

"And that brings us to our second order of business. New kid, step on up." There was no time to bum another smoke, she was stuck in the hotseat. Tremor helped her climb up on the table, but she was still incredibly small compared to the boss.

 

_There are so many people. Shit, they’re all looking at me._

 

"Everyone, this is our new cape muscle. Wave to the crowd, kid." The crowd erupted into an excited roar, though she swore that she heard a few grumbles mixed in with the cheers. There were definitely a few wolf whistles, which made her uncomfortable, but everything was forgotten soon. These people were cheering for her. This was her new crew. "You come up with a name yet?" Tremor asked in a hushed whisper, right in her ear. She thought for a moment, then replied.

 

“Amphetamine Queen.” Tremor nudged her arm, then pointed to the crowd. She was supposed to say it to _everyone._ With a clear of her throat, she proudly pronounced the name. “Amphetamine Queen.”

 

There were a few chuckles and sniggers from the crowd, but Tremor managed to quash them with one lazy-eyed look. "Tell us about what you can do then, Queen."

 

She took another deep breath, her hands shaking from all the attention. "Long story short, I run really fast, start to fucking fly, and then I make a huge goddamn crater." Her nerves were incredibly obvious, and it made her feel incredibly small.

 

"Right, right. So. I want you up in the air tonight, keeping an eye on our guys.”

 

_Wait, what?_


	9. Akron 5

“We'll ping you on phone if anywhere needs backup - you're gonna be our first response. Think you can step up on your first night?" Well, this was it. She took a deep breath and decided to suck it up. Feigning the most confident voice she could muster, she nodded.

 

"Don't fuckin’ underestimate me. I'll teach those motherfuckers not to mess with us."

 

“Hell yeah! That’s what I fuckin’ like to hear!” Tremor shouted, causing the whole room to erupt into whoops and screams. This time, they seemed genuine. The feeling was exhilarating– intoxicating even.

 

"You can count on me." She pantomimed a few punches in the air, her face locked in a giddy smile. “I’m gonna kick  _ ass _ .”

 

The rest of the meeting was rather uneventful. Most of it was just business and discussion of formations and tactics. She was following along closely, nodding at the appropriate moments, but inside she was on the moon. This was it, this was where she belonged. Gone was stupid Genny Marshall, high school student and crybaby extraordinaire. That girl was dead and in her place stood Amphetamine Queen, rising from the ashes.

 

There was an hour before they left for Imogen’s first raid. She was sitting on the couch at Shades’ apartment, sipping slowly on a can of Pepsi. Her nerves were high, but she was ready to help everyone out as aerial support. It was an important gig. As much as Shades assured her that she most likely wasn’t going to see any actual combat, she was still pretty scared. Still scrolling through her phone Imogen, no– Queen, was pulled back to the real world when Shades placed a hand on her shoulder. 

 

"Yo, kid, you need anything before you suit up?"

 

Imogen shrugged, running through a few options in her head. "Need something better than a fuckin butterknife in case some bitches give me trouble.” Shades nodded, but before he could say anything she got stuck in a wave of word vomit. “Also, I should probably fuckin’ thank you or somethin’ but I'm assumin' you ain't the thankin’ kind of guy. You got a cigarette?"

 

"I'll do you one better," He reached into his pocket and fished out three tiny, circular pills. Each were indented with a plus sign and felt good in her hand. "Take these before you head out. Generally I don't recommend working under the influence, but this shit'll keep your mind sharp and your reflexes sharper. Just don't get too cocky, yeah?"

 

Imogen nodded and took them all, swallowing them dry even though she had a drink right in front of her. They stuck a little going down, but it didn’t bother her much. She’d had worse.

 

"Guess you can bum a cig offa me too, why not," he shrugged, proffering a half-empty box of Camel Reds to her. She took one and placed it between her lips, then looked around for her lighter. “Not inside. Go to the fuckin’ balcony.”

 

“Yeah, yeah.” She rolled her eyes, the unlit cigarette still dangling from her lips. “Thanks.”

 

"Anything I can getcha gearwise?" he asked. "Might need a mask or some shit, yeah? We can get your actual costume figured out later." Queen nodded slightly, walking towards the sliding glass door. 

 

"A mask would be good. Don't need my pretty face endin up on fuckin’ TV." She opened the door and stepped out onto the balcony, Shades following close behind. It took a few strikes of her lighter for the flame to flicker to life, but she managed to light the cigarette with no trouble. She took a long drag on it, allowing the smoke and cool night air to calm her nerves. "You think I could get my hands on a gun?" Her question was quiet, barely rising above a whisper. It was an afterthought, barely a blip on her radar, and she didn’t think that he would actually oblige.

 

"Ehhh... fuck it." Shades said, pulling a small pistol from beneath his jacket. He handed it to her butt-first, and she savored the feeling of its weight in her hand. "I'll lend you my backup piece for tonight, and if you're actually a good shot with it, we can look into getting one for you to keep. It's an H&K 30-mil, treat it nice. I do want it back."

 

_ If this is his backup, I’d like to see what he’s packing as his primary. _ She turned the gun over in her hands, being as careful as possible. She knew her way around a gun, knew how to handle one safely. It was a double-action semiauto, with a twenty-round box magazine. She whistled with appreciation, looking up into Shades’ covered eyes.

 

“Damn, Shades. I'll take good care of her." He nodded, then went back into his pocket. He was able to produce a square of black cloth, folded neatly, and placed it into her hands.

 

“‘S all we could get on short notice. You’ll have to tie it around your lower face, like a bandana.”

 

"I expected more of you, Shades," Imogen said with a laugh. She accepted the cloth and tied it around her face, making sure that it was secure before giving a nod. Not getting caught was a top priority. She was wanted as a missing person now, and adding her powers into the picture made things even more complicated. There weren’t too many tiny blonde girls that could fly running around.

 

"Yeah, yeah, bitch some more, kid, ain't like we already spent a grand on you.” Shades watched as she blew smoke over the balcony’s edge. He could tell that she was tense, and he had a nagging feeling that he should probably say something to help calm her down. However, he could barely come up with anything inspiring. "By the by, you know what the rest of the crew does yet?"

 

Queen slipped the gun into the waistband of her pants and took another drag of her cigarette with a shrug. "Dunno. Drug stuff?"

 

"No, jackass, I meant the guys with the powers." She had quickly figured out how to spot when Shades was rolling his eyes behind his signature shades at her. Still, she stifled a laugh.

 

"You're the jackass, jackass. And no, please fuckin elaborate." Imogen kind of wanted to punch him in the face for that, but she knew that he could probably kick her punk ass.

 

Shades looked down at his phone and frowned. “Get inside.” He ordered, and she followed him inside with a nod, dropping her cigarette on the balcony to fizzle out. She hung behind him, watching as he opened the front door. There stood the two men from before, the one with the tattoos and the one with the wrench.

 

"Here's Quickfix and Freezerburn, kiddo. Go say hi." She nervously slunk from the living area to the door, giving the two men a small ‘hi.’

 

"I'm Amphetamine Queen, I guess. Fuck. Is that how I introduce myself?" She paused, then tapped her chin. “Sorry, I’m still new to this whole cape shit.”

 

" 'lo, Queen," Says the man with the wrench. She assumed that one was Quickfix. He moved over to the couch, his sandy blonde hair hanging over his goggles as he began tinkering with an automatic shotgun. 

 

"Don't mind mister antisocial here, he's Quickfix, I'm Freezerburn," The man with the tattoos held out his hand, and Imogen took it. He had a firm handshake and oddly muscled arms for a blaster, at least for the ones she had seen. His voice was slightly muffled by the mask on his lower face, looking something akin to a bear trap.

 

"How long you been with the Dust Devils?" Queen asked in an awkward attempt to stir up some sort of conversation. His handshake was firm.  _ Too _ firm. It was actually a little painful. For a moment, she was sure that he was cracking her bones.

 

"Ehh, 'bout two years, I'd say? It's been good times, for the most part.” He had a fond smile on his face as he let go of her hand, stepping away to peer over Quickfix’s shoulder. The pills were beginning to kick in, making Queen feel more relaxed. She felt like she could fight three bears with sheer brawn. 

 

"Well, I hope I don't let you the fuck down. Gonna kick some ass tonight." She pantomimed a few punches, bouncing on the balls of her feet the entire way.

 

"Fuck yeah," Freezerburn said, and Quickfix returned the notion in a quiet nod. Shades returned from the bedroom, his smartphone pressed to his ear. He waved everyone towards the doors, and the quartet filed downstairs. The base was filled with various mooks, though none of them were heading out on this mission. Imogen and the others had to push past the numerous fucks before making their way to the center. She was about to begin a conversation with Shades when she was interrupted by the sound of glass shattering. 

 

Tremor had climbed up on the table again, an orbital of various pieces of shattered glass floating around him. " 'bout time, motherfuckers! You sorry sons a' bitches ready to ROCK and MOTHERFUCKING ROLL?" His eyes were wide, or eye rather. In costume he wore an eyepatch, leaving only his good eye exposed. He had a certain swagger to him, there was no doubt in Queen’s mind that he had been hitting the shit too.

 

"LET'S FUCKIN’ DO THIS SHIT!" she shouted, pumping a fist into the air. The drugs were giving her a confidence that she hadn’t had before, and she liked it. The mooks and goons cleared out, leaving the muscle to split up with one of the four dealers. Imogen looked them all over, trying to get an eye for all of them. The thugs were filing outside, probably to take to the streets for extra numbers. 

 

_ Looks like my cue to fly _ . She gave herself a running start, then took off into the air. The feeling of flying was still incredibly amazing, and now that she was flying  _ with a purpose _ ? It was fucking magical. Queen was tailing Shades’ convertible, watching as he zoomed through the city. She was nearly matching speed with him, and holy  _ shit _ it felt good. She was itching to swoop down from the sky and kick someone’s ass, to join the action and get into the thick of it.

 

She made a mental note to avoid accidentally landing near Shades’ car, because she was pretty sure he’d skin her alive and make it look like an accident if she so much as looked at the paint funny. Queen was keeping an eye out for trouble, but kept high enough in the sky to avoid being shot down. It was quiet. It didn’t look like there was going to be any action anytime soon and it was driving her mad. 

 

“Hope they fucking show the fuck up soon.” She mumbled under her breath, before realizing that talking and flying at that speed was only an invitation for swallowing bugs. The drugs were making her jumpy. Hell, she was almost certain that she’d crash land for a squirrel at this point.

 

She flew around for what felt like forever, she had no real concept of time up in the air. It could have been five, ten, twenty? Hell, even thirty minutes of tense circling in the air before anything happened. That was when she heart three consecutive bangs, unmistakably gunshots. 

 

The shots were coming from Quickfix’s direction, that she was sure of. Queen switched directions mid-flight and began zooming towards the disturbance. The wind was whipping her in the face and stinging her eyes, so much so that she could barely make out the source of the squabble. As she flew lower, she was able to gain a visual. Quickfix was standing there, surrounded by three gangbangers with guns. The dealer that Quickfix was supposed to be watching was on his knees, clutching at a bullet wound on his side. Crimson blood was pouring out between his fingers– there was no doubt the shot was serious.

 

It was definitely an emergency. Queen began to swoop in for a divebomb and ended up missing all of the goons, creating a large crater behind them. They were, however, startled and now peppered with a shower of debris. 

 

She tucked and rolled out of the crater, pulling the gun out of the waistband of her pants and unlocking the safety in one fluid motion. Both of her hands were on the grip, her right index finger resting next to the trigger. The shitty Wal-Mart clothes she had opted to wear for the mission had gotten a little torn up in the roll, but she herself was fine.

 

Using Queen’s ruckus as a distraction, Quickfix leapt from cover. He swung his giant crescent wrench in the air, hitting one of the thugs in the back of the head. The metal made impact with a wet and meaty crack before clanging to the ground to allow for Quickfix to draw his shotgun. He swept the muzzle from thug to thug, growling the entire way. “Just gimme a reason!” 

 

From basic social cues, Queen knew that this situation was incredibly volatile and unstable. The drugs gave her an intense confidence. She felt like she could do  _ anything. _ Imogen crouched, taking aim on one of the thugs before firing. The gun felt good in her hands, and Hell it was a semiauto. She could let loose just a little. The fuck took two shots to the gut and one to the leg before collapsing on the floor. 

 

Queen could hear a muffled "Wh-what the f-fuck?" from the remaining goon. He looked between her and Quickfix with terror in his eyes, nearly pissing himself from the fear.

 

"You want him, or I can I finish this last motherfucker off?" She asked, getting back to her feet with a sly grin. The bandana obscured most of her face but it was still pretty obvious that she was a young girl, which made the image all the more scary. 

 

"Don't jump the gun, Queen, we need to ask some questions." Quickfix tapped his chin and Queen nodded in agreement, waiting patiently for her superior to issue another order. "Can't have you runnin', though.” 

 

She raised an eyebrow, wondering what he meant, but before she could even react he had pumped and shot the shotgun at one of the man’s legs. It was nearly blown off, a spray of meat and blood coming down on the three while the Devils’ dealer still writhed in the corner. It was gross, and all sorts of unsanitary. The man screamed bloody murder, adding another note to the urban chorus of the night.

 

"Better start talkin’. Who the fuck are you?" Queen shouted, standing over the man as she shouted. It was obvious she was getting cocky now, that the drugs were talking more than she was. He didn’t answer her, he just kept screaming.

 

The wails were quieting down as Quickfix approached, his mouth curled into a sinister grin. The cries of pain began again when the cape pressed the smoking barrel of the shotgun to the man’s bloody stump, punctuated with the sizzle of burning flesh. “Wow, Quickfix. That’s fucking gross…”

 

They were too busy poking at the man to notice that their interrogation was going to be cut short. A van pulled through and drifted a 180 on the empty street to face them. With a pair of crashes and a ear-splitting metallic scrape, the two rear doors of the van were torn off their hinges to obscure a large and lumbering form behind them. 

 

The doors moved with the figure, scraping the ground and setting off sparks into the cool night air. It looked almost as if he was using them as impromptu riot shields, protecting his body from the pair. “What the fuck?” She said, getting to her feet with her gun raised in front of her. Queen was ready to fire if she needed to, but the situation was still developing. She had no clue what could fucking happen.

 

Quickfix blew a slug into the van door, but it simply ricocheted off into the brick of a nearby building. The door flickered visibly; it looked as if he were imbuing some sort of power into them. "Could fuckin' use some backup here," Quickfix growled into his headset.  
  


"Fuckin’ hell, they've got capes. Quickfix, the fuck are we supposed to do?" Queen’s confidence was quickly falling, replaced bit by bit with speed-addled anxiety.

 

"Back in the sky, Queen. He can't fuck with you up there, let's hold out 'til some buddies arrive." He sounded serious, it was very clear that it was an order. He didn’t want to be responsible for some kid getting smeared on the pavement by a fuck with van-door riot shields. She nodded, taking his warning seriously. It didn’t take long to get airborne, but Quickfix’s warning was inaccurate.

 

The man with the doors hurled one at her while she was in the sky, the metal flickering with whatever power he had instilled in it. Queen just barely dodged it, diving down at the last moment as it soared over her head. The door landed on a nearby parked car, warping the metal and setting the wounded car’s alarm off. The sound was shrill and annoying, playing in the background of the bullshit going on in front of her.

 

Imogen was now back on the ground, short of breath, and full to the brim with insane panic, but unhurt. The man was in her line of sight, and she still had her gun. He was more focused on Quickfix at the moment, which gave her an opening. She took a deep breath as she pulled the trigger, firing indiscriminately at his general direction. Each one of the bullets bounced off of the doors; she only succeeded in making him  _ angry _ . He placed the remaining door in front of him and charged at her. 

 

_ Fuck _ ,  _ I’m going to die _ . Queen took off running again, bulleting into the air with a look of pure terror on her face. "Quickfix, please tell me backup is on its fuckin’ way."

 

Van-Man charged past where Queen had previously stood and let out a frustrated groan. Disinterested in pursuing an airborne target, he yanked the door off of the destroyed car and pulled it in front of him. His focus was entirely on Quickfix, barely hesitating before starting his charge towards the Devils’ other cape. 

 

Quickfix, left alone, swore under his breath while he fumbled to reload his shotgun. "Shit, Queen, I fuckin' hope." He was panicking, but managed to slide slugs into the barrel.

 

"Hope don't keep people alive. Jesus christ." She looked around from her spot in the air, trying to find a way to stop the man from barrelling over Quickfix and turning him into a smear on the pavement. "I didn't run from fuckin’ rehab to get killed by an asshole with a fuckin’ DOOR."

 

"Keep stalling, Queen! Get his back if you can!" Quickfix bellowed as he sent two more shots into the doors with little effect. In a last-ditch effort, he pulled the pin from a grenade with his teeth and hurled it at the man. He beat it away with little effort, leaving it to detonate on an empty part of the street.

 

"Gotcha," Queen said, getting behind Van in the air. She pulled her gun and began peppering him with gunfire. One of the shots punched into his upper shoulder, causing him to erupt in a boiling shout of rage.

 

"Crater the road under or near his feet!" Quickfix yelled, "Boss's incoming!"

 

_ Good. Backup _ . She began to plummet to the ground, screaming “Take that, you piece of  _ shit! _ ” on the way down. He heard her scream, and turned to swat her out of the air. She dove to the ground quickly and violently to try to dodge, sending chunks of asphalt all around. However, she couldn’t get up quick enough and the van door hit her square in the chest on the backswing. The wind was knocked out of Queen’s chest, sending her wheezing and desperately trying to suck in air as her body crashed into the brick wall behind her.

 

Fragments of brick and drywall rained down around her head, but the only thing she could sense was dizziness and a blinding pain  _ everywhere. _ The sharp tang of copper entered her mouth, scaring her half to death. She was coughing up blood, and quite a bit of it. Through blurry, half closed eyes, she could see Van Door plummeting towards Quickfix. His back was to her, it was her only chance. 

 

Queen dug her gun out of her waistband, nearly screaming in pain when she realized that her wrist was most definitely broken. She was actually quite surprised that the gun was still there after she had been knocked around like a rag doll. Another cough shook her body, sending more blood into her mouth as she fought to raise her arm. With one last burst of strength, she pulled the trigger. It was an immense struggle, her arm complaining the entire pull, but she managed it. 

 

The gunshot rang out in the night, though Imogen wasn’t sure if the crack she heard was from the gun or her arm. The kickback had widened the fracture in her wrist, sending another blinding wave of pain through her body. This time she did cry out, falling over to her side with a pained whine. Her vision began fading in and out until she finally succumbed to the darkness, letting it wash over her like a warm blanket.   
  



	10. Sicarios 1

Blearily, Queen woke from her slumber, still slumped against the brick wall amongst the rubble. Everything hurt, she couldn’t even find a source of it anymore. Quickfix was kneeling above her, taking her pulse from her one good arm. He tied a shoelace around her bicep, making sure it was tighter than was necessarily comfortable.

 

She tried to lift her head to see what he was doing, but even that activity was too strenuous. The cape slapped the crook of her elbow a few times, then injected something into one of the puffed-up veins. Whatever the substance was, it made her feel good. The pain was washing into a distant memory, and everything felt soft and relaxed.

 

"You did good, Queen," he said, "Take it easy for now, I'll get you patched up." His voice was soothing, like he was talking to a small child. Normally, she would care. Normally she would be pissed off at that tone, but everything felt good. She tried to sit up once more, even though her whole body felt heavy.

 

"What happened.... to that fucker?" She mumbled, pulling the bandana hanging from her lower face down. Quickfix nudged her back down to the ground with a hush, not wanting her to strain herself even more.

 

"Boss took 'im out," Quickfix laughed, "you shoulda seen it, it was SICK." He pulled back from her, going to get some bandages out of his bag. "All that shit you knocked loose when you crash-landed? He blew it up right under the fucker."

 

Sure enough with some creative head movements, she was able to catch sight of a large crater. There was no sign of Van Door anywhere. "Fuck yeah. That motherfucker deserved it." Her voice was getting sleepier and sleepier, her vision doubling on her as the minutes dragged on. There was a small and lingering sting in the crook of her elbow, exacerbated by Quickfix pulling the shoelace from her arm. “What… What’d you shoot me up with?”

 

"Personal cocktail. Just think of it like ultra-morphine. It's gonna knock you out in a second, be prepared." He ruffled her hair, then wiped a smear of blood from her lower lip with a slightly dusty tissue. She spat out the dust, but the metallic tang still lingered on her tongue.

 

"I could…” She coughed, “use it. Shit, I'm not a pussy but this. This hurts." Queen swallowed hard once more, trying her hardest to pull through.

 

“Yeah, you really took a beatin' out there, kid. Nice work, though," Quickfix smiled and pat her on the back. Her vision was pulling black at the edges, blinking out every so often. She could feel the sleep coming back over her, and she succumbed to it wholeheartedly.

 

Imogen woke up on a large and slightly uneven mattress, pain radiating through every inch of her body. Sunlight was filtering in from a small window near the ceiling, dancing on her face to shake her awake. She could hear people chattering outside of the room, but she couldn’t pick up on any words. Next to the bed was a bottle of water and an assortment of pills in various unlabeled prescription bottles. She tried to sit up, but her ribs ached something terrible.

 

“Fuck, what a night.” Imogen mumbled as she reached for the bottle. It was then that she noticed one of her arms was covered in a black velcro brace, keeping her split bones together. She fumbled a little bit for the bottles, and eventually managed to reach them. Using the headboard, Imogen pulled herself up to a sit. In a fluid motion, she unscrewed the cap of the bottle and poured the lot into her mouth. The water bottle was hard to open with only one good hand, and the pills were beginning to dissolve into a bitter funk on her tongue. By the time she opened it, her thirst was ravenous. The water felt cold and refreshing down her throat, washing the pills and their taste away.

 

Once her mind was cleared, Queen took a look around the room. There was no one else in there– hell, she didn’t even know where she was. The bed was against a wall with no windows, and there was a door a few feet from it. Across from the door was another door, but other than the bed and a closet there wasn’t much else more.

 

"Fan-fucking-tastic." She said, pulling herself to her feet in an attempt to find a bathroom to grab a shower in. There was blood and dirt caked in her hair and she _really_ needed to piss. Her mouth tasted like old blood and sleep, making her nearly gag. Finding toothpaste would be a blessing from the gods as far as she was concerned.

 

Imogen tried both doors, finding the bathroom in the one on the right. It wasn’t anything fancy, but it wasn’t gross either. “Better have some decent-ass soap.” She muttered as she walked in, yanking her clothes slowly off to avoid hurting herself even more.

 

The shower was full of soaps and shower gels, all with scent names like ‘Forest Wake’ and ‘Woodsy Moss.’ It was all guy stuff, not that that was a bad thing. It was still going to get her clean. Queen flicked on the water, making sure that it was warm before she stepped in. She frowned a little as water began to hit the cast, wondering if it was supposed to get wet. After a moment of deliberation she stuck her arm out of the shower, into the cold air.

 

Her body was peppered in large purple bruises, each one looking worse than the last. She had no doubt that her ribs were broken, and she noticed a few stitches on her side that concerned her. _What the hell happened last night?_ Everything was fine, until she started to feel light-headed and slightly nauseous. The drugs were kicking in, and they were kicking in fast. Imogen lost her balance quickly, clawing at the shower curtain in a last ditch attempt to keep upright. Her plan, however, was extremely flawed. Instead of steadying herself she took the shower rod down with her.

 

The rod bonked her head, then clanged against the tile with a tell-tale bang. She fell after it, banging her ribs against the rim of the bath tub. Spots clouded her vision, before the whole thing went black once more.

 

Imogen woke up again back on the mattress, this time dressed in a large t-shirt and yet another pair of athletic shorts. Her ribs ached even more than the last time, making her want to throw up. She rolled over, pulling the blankets on top of her, only to see Shades sitting in a chair next to the bed. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't be laughing," he said, even though he clearly was.

 

"You did good, though, Queen, don't feel like you have to move around and do shit. You've earned some downtime, that's for goddamn sure." He leaned over and ruffled her hair, which had long dried. She guessed that he had dressed her while she was unconscious, not wanting to have to explain having a naked, knocked out runaway minor in his guest room. He rose from the chair, shaking his head slightly at her. "Shout at me if you need anything, You have my number.” He tossed her cell phone to the bed, barely avoiding her ribs.

 

"Shades, if I didn't feel like shit I would fuckin punch you right now." Imogen rolled over to face him, giving him a small smile through her pain. "What's the damage? How fucked up did I get? Did our guys make it out? Who the fuck attacked us?" Her questions bulleted one after the other, before she took a long pause, tapping an index finger to her chin. "Can you get me a fuckin’ egg McMuffin?"

 

"You're fine - busted your wrist, gonna have to wear a sling for a few weeks, ribs cracked - think you made it worse just now, but just take it easy. We lost one guy, Darren, he's the guy who got shot in the stomach, but you and him were the only casualties. Damn impressive you kept that asshole after you for so long."

 

She nodded along, swallowing hard when he broke the news of the dealer’s demise. Still, no one else got hurt. That was something she could be thankful for. Her injuries sounded bad, but Shades’ tone made her feel a little bit better. He sat back down in the chair, figuring that this would take a while.

 

"As far as who? I dunno, some other gang trying to muscle into our turf, but I gotta feeling they're gonna think twice about doing it again. Quickfix's been asking one of the guys we grabbed some intimate questions, so I feel we'll have some more answers for you soon."

 

Shades paused again, leaning back in the chair with a frown. "Uh, also, hate to break it to ya, but it's two in the afternoon. Breakfast time is officially over."

 

"God damnit. I was out for that long? Fuck." She felt… _bad_. First time out with the gang and now she was dead weight in Shades’ apartment. "You sure it's okay for me to fuck off here?"

 

"Dude, I live by myself, it's no big. I put my apartment up as a safehouse for the group anyways - you get fucked up, you need somewhere to be, you crash here - which is exactly what's happening, so it's cool.” He waved her off, looking back down at his phone with a frown.

 

"And if it's too late for breakfast, fuck. I need a cheeseburger or something. And a new fuckin’ set of ribs. Jesus, at least I shot the guy, otherwise I'd feel like a real fuck." Her stomach growled, her head aching at the edges from fatigue and hunger.

 

"Alright, got one of the guys bringin' down some eats for both of us." He slipped his phone back into his pocket and gave Queen another small smile. She felt good, at least for the moment. She blamed that on the opioids.

 

"You're a fuckin’ gem, you know that?” She lifted herself to a slow sit and ran her fingers in little circles over the fabric of the sheets, cracking an even bigger smile as she did it. “Though you could use some better sheets. Thread count is fuckin important."

 

He rolled his eyes at her again, this time she was one hundred percent certain. "Go lay back down, I'll get you when the food's here. Or hell, use my bed, it's a goddamn Tempur-Pedic, and I'm gonna be up doing things anyways."

 

"Fuck, that sounds amazing. Give me a hand? If I can't fuckin’ take a shower without fucking my shit up at least make sure I don't end up on the goddamn floor again." It took her a second to realize that he was still wearing his sunglasses in his own house. _What a weird fuck_.

 

“Hey. Insults comin’ from you? I can take that.” Shades shrugged, and it took Queen a second to realize that she had said that _out loud_. Still, he scooped her up in his arms to take her into the next room. She was still thin and frail from rehab-induced emaciation, coupled with years of stimulant addiction. Carrying her was barely a chore. They made it into the master bedroom, and Shades carefully placed her down on the bed to avoid fucking her up any more.

 

The Tempur-Pedic felt a thousand times better than the crappy bed in the other room, and the sheets were much softer too. For a few moments it didn’t feel like her spine was going to crack in half. She sprawled out on her back, staring at the ceiling with a frown. "Heard the boss fucked up the dude that attacked me an’ Quickfix real good."

 

"Oh, the doors guy? He's fuckin' dead. Boss tore him like, fifty new assholes." Shades wasn’t fazed at all. He’d seen more and worse before.

 

"That's fuckin’ beautiful, considerin’ all the SHIT he put us through." She pulled a pillow over her head in an attempt to block out the light, but left her mouth and nose exposed to the air. “Real talk, Shades. Does this mean I get my own fuckin gun now?”

 

"Damn right," he said. "Firing that fucker with a broken wrist? You got fuckin' balls, kid." She blushed a little, feeling as if she didn’t deserve the credit. She didn’t know that her wrist was broken at the moment. If she did, she might not have gone through with it.

 

"Told you. But you didn't fuckin’ believe me."

 

"Yeah, yeah, you can ease off, I'm letting you keep my very nice gun," He looked at her, a half-broken girl trying to keep up a conversation at a mile a minute, and sighed. "Seriously, dude, lie down, take it easy 'til your food gets here. You raggin' on my ass isn't gonna get you any rest."

 

Imogen sighed heavily, knowing deep down that Shades was right. Her ribs hurt, her wrist hurt… She felt like complete and utter shit and she wasn’t certain that Shades wasn’t hiding a detail or two of her injuries for her. Now that she knew she had job security, she figured she could afford to take a little rest.

 

She barely noticed that she drifted off again, only waking from the smell of fries drifting through the room. Imogen sat up a little too quickly, letting out a string of curses under her breath. Her mouth was watering. It had been too long since she last ate– before they even went out the night before she supposed.

 

"Damn, that smells fuckin’ amazing." Queen said, looking over to Shades. He handed her a bag, solidifying himself in god status in her eyes. The bag contained a large fry, several McDoubles, even a goddamn McFlurry. "This is better than that one time I did coke with a mall model holy FUCK."

 

While the McFlurry was seriously tempting, she went for one of the McDoubles, ripping the wrapper off with a ravenous hunger. She inhaled burger after burger, only pausing to shove more fries down her gullet. Her ribs twinged and ached in protest, but oh man it was _so good_.

 

"Shades you're a goddamn angel. You don't even know what the food at rehab was like. Fuckin’ shit. Is it cliche to say I must have died last night? Because despite feeling like I fucked a truck I'm in heaven right now."

 

"Hahaha, dude, I'm glad you appreciate it, but this was like, eight bucks of fast food. We're going to somewhere legit for dinner to celebrate, fret ye not," He was munching a burger of his own, though he was eating it at the pace of a normal human being.

 

"I used to have taste ya know. I may have come to you as a greasy-ass lookin’ kid, but my parents are LOADED. My sweet sixteen was huge. Spent half of it sittin’ in a bathtub snorting coke but it was GREAT.” She failed to mention that that sweet sixteen was what had gotten her into this mess in the first place. “And then camp HELL happened and man now this burger is so delicious I would fuck it, marry it, and have its burger children."

 

"Holy shit, Queen, calm down. You can have a fuckin' porterhouse steak or whatever your spoiled little heart desires come dinnertime. Don't whore yourself off to the first fast food to show ya a good time," Shades cackled at his own comment, putting the burger back down on the table.

 

"I'll whore myself to whatever fast food I want. At the moment it's this burger." She paused and thought about it for a moment, tapping a finger against her chin. "Actually no. I'm not fucking Ronald McDonald. Clowns are fuckin’ WEIRD."

 

"Good call. You're starting to ramble, pal, you should probably conk out for a bit more once you're done eating."

 

 _Damnit, Shades. Why do you always have to be right?_ "Yeah. Yeah. Shit though, I owe you one." he nodded, taking the bag she had carefully thrown her wrappers into, and walked towards the door.

 

“I’ll wake you up in time for dinner.” He said, turning off the lights on his way out. Imogen nodded, pulling the covers back over herself with a small frown. She wondered for a moment if this was what having a real sick day was about; people taking care of you and hoping that you get better. It gave her a small warm and fuzzy feeling inside, making her feel good as she drifted off for another nap.

 

Dinner was a glitzy affair. Most of the Dust Devils were upstairs in the main part of the restaurant, partying it up to celebrate their triumph over the rival gang. Queen had been getting a lot of congratulations, and several over-enthusiastic pats on the back. Tremor, Freezerburn, Quickfix… they all called her a badass. Told her that she had a large set of balls. It made her feel good, or at least as good as she could feel with a broken wrist and cracked ribs.

 

Tremor climbed on top of a table, _again_ , and slam-dunked a drinking glass onto the ground. The waitstaff barely blinked an eye; Imogen assumed that was because they were used to his antics. Working at a gang-owned restaurant tended to make you used to a lot of things. "I wanna hear you guys give a shout for our new member, Queen, whom without her assistance that asshole with the doors yesterday would not be so UTTERLY FUCKED UP!"

 

Imogen– Queen, was very pleased with her public stroke to the ego. She swaggered over to Quickfix, who was sitting alone, mainly to thank him for saving her ass the night before. “Ay!” she called, taking a seat next to him with a small smile.

 

"Hey, 'sup. Glad to see you out and about." He gave her a friendly and genuine smile, looking her up and down. She assumed that he was the one that patched her up after his battlefield triage, and that was pretty damn nice of him.

 

"Doin’ relatively well. Wouldn't be if you didn't save my ass, so I guess I should say thanks or somethin'." Queen shifted awkwardly in her chair, not accustomed to thanking anyone.

 

"Hey, don't sweat it. You kept that asshole busy for a damn long time, I'm just doin' my job." He poked at his dinner, some sort of dish with shrimp on a bed of rice. His crescent wrench was strapped to his back, still caked in blood and hair from the night before. It was a grisly sight, nearly making her hurl.

 

"So yeah that's. That's what I wanted to say." Her leg was bouncing, and she was avoiding eye contact as she spoke. Quickfix wasn’t a bad guy, but now that she think about it… she did kill a man last night. The crescent wrench was just another reminder. _Gotta move past this, Genny._

 

She got up, looking around to try to find that kid from the day before. Anthony? Tony? Whatever his name was, it was pretty clear that he wasn’t there. Maybe he wasn’t a high enough level in the Devils to be here, or maybe he was just forgotten. Maybe he had tripped to hard on a tab of acid and locked himself in the closet. Queen decided instead to walk over to the boss, who was chewing on a large steak with a content grin.

 

"Thanks for knockin' all that asphalt loose for me, yeah? He was running over one of the craters you'd made when I blew his ass to smithereens.” He shoved another bite of meat into his mouth, a drop of A1 dribbling from his fork to the bottom of his chin. "We're havin' this shindig here for you, Queen, first night out and you take one helluva hit for the team."

 

After years of her parents barely acknowledging her existence, having all of these people pay attention to her was exhilarating. Well, that and _exhausting_. Still, talking to the boss about what they did was pretty damn cool. "Heard you fucked him up real good. Too bad I couldn't see for myself."

 

"Oh man, you shoulda seen it. I turned his legs into fuckin' ground beef." It was probably not the best thing to do, but Imogen burst out into full knee-slapping laughter. The mental image was grotesque, but the delivery was perfect. Her fit of laughter made her ribs ache, which stopped the celebration right in its tracks. She sat down quietly, lowering herself down inch by inch to avoid another wave of pain.

 

"Any word on who the fucker was? I don't know local capes well enough to guess." Queen sounded nearly out of breath, but every gasp of air hurt more. She made a mental note to ask Shades for another fistfull of whatever he gave her that morning.

 

"Some asshole called Clamshell. Yeah, shitty name, I know, thank god he's not alive anymore to use it. Some new gang in town, though, not sure what they're called."

 

"Sicarios," Quickfix said from across the table, his mouth stuffed to the brim with some sort of fish dish. Even through the food, she could hear him speak the name with the proper Hispanic inflection. He swallowed, nearly without chewing, then looked back at the two.

 

"Sicarios?" Imogen perked up her ears, though the name didn’t sound familiar at all. "Glad that bastard is dead. Hope that sends a message to these Sicarios motherfuckers."

 

"Oh, they ain't gonna fuck with us for quite some time." The boss smirked, leaning in close enough to Imogen that she could smell the alcohol on his breath. "But you bet your sweet ass we're gonna fuck with them." He leaned back in his chair, throwing his arm over the back of hers in order to stretch out. Quickfix was nodding thoughtfully while scarfing down more of his fish and pasta.

 

"They just lost what I'd wager to be one of their beefiest dudes - they've gotta be reeling. So we move in, we show 'em how hard they fucked up, and we cut them a deal." Tremor was still rambling on; Queen noticed that that was a common occurrence with him. He must’ve been as tweaked out as she was. "If we beat the hell of out them and tell 'em they got no place here, but turn around, sayin' that they could work with us - well, that could give us the muscle we need to move on to even bigger things."

 

 _The move to Cleveland?_ She remembered that Shades had mentioned it offhandedly before, but… she had just adjusted to life in Akron. "I would love to fuck with them. Kick their asses and watch them cry because they got beat up by a tiny ass blonde girl. I wanna make them BLEED." It seemed like a new addiction was creeping up on Imogen, one to danger and bad decisions. If she had any sort of rationality in her, she would have been concerned by this.

 

"That's exactly what I wanted to GODDAMN HEAR!" Tremor slammed his fist on the table, making her jump nearly thirty feet in the air. Before anyone could do anything, Tremor was stepping up on to his chair and shouting at everyone.

 

"You hear that, Devils? You got a week to prep! Gotta give Queen here a chance to patch up, but we gotta hit 'em while they're reeling. So - grab your friends! Grab your guns! Grab your motherfucking friends' guns! 'cause in a week, WE FUCK WITH SICARIOS!"

 

 _Oh shit_. Before she knew it, she was up on her chair and screaming too. The entire sea of Devils was getting riled up and excited, with the exception of Shades. He was standing against the wall, calmly scanning the room to make sure no one was getting _too_ rowdy.

 

 _Shades_.

 

She caught a ride back to the apartment with him, nearly falling asleep in his passenger’s seat after scarfing down another dose of pills. Beyond her first impression, he didn’t seem so bad. He seemed to care about the Devils, or at least their reputation. There was something more there, though. He was letting her crash in his apartment, took care of her after she passed out in the shower.

 

All that, and she got to spend her recovery time fucking off on his Tempur-Pedic watching HBO. That in itself was pretty sweet. Still, it was late at night and the only thing that was on was shitty porn. _Gross_. She was starting to nod off again, but was awoken by Shades walking back into the bedroom.

 

“Hey kid, time to fuck off back to the spare room.” He said, rubbing at his temples with a frown. "I've gotta go to sleep too.”

 

"Damnit Shades." Queen sighed heavily, pulling the blankets off of her frail body. She knew she shouldn’t complain too much. Shades was being nice to her by even letting her hang in his bed at all. Her feet hit the ground and she suffered a massive headrush, a slew of dizziness and headache that nearly knocked her off of her feet. That was the opiates, and maybe the fatigue.

 

Shades walked over to steady her and helped her walk back into the spare room. She climbed into bed, pulling the thin sheet over herself to feign some semblance of warmth. Shades had left the room, but soon returned with a large stack of plush blankets. He dumped them on top of her, burying her in their embrace.

 

"Alright, we're gonna give you some time to recuperate and shit, but start workin' on a gameplan for Sicaros." She pulled a large navy blanket off of her face and sat up a bit in the bed. Shades pat the top of her head and ruffled her hair, making her pout and frown. Imogen wiggled her way out from under the covers, but he nudged her back down. “Get some rest, kid.”

 

She nodded, pulling the covers back over her. He gave her a small fist bump and smiled. "Let's fuck 'em up." A smile broke out on her face, the newly-gained rush washing over her once more. Shades exited the room, hitting the lights on the way out, and she found sleep washing over her once more.

 

The week before the clash against Sicarios was not wasted. Even though Queen spent most of her time fucking off on Shades’ spare bed and mooching off of his HBO, she was also spending a large chunk of time working on her costume. The boss, wanting his plan to go perfectly, was throwing large chunks of change towards her to make sure she was properly equipped. She wondered if maybe he felt bad for her injuries; she _had_ been sent out without proper gear.

 

A lot of time was spent researching costume ideas. She had tons of tabs open on her phone with various google searches. Costume design, fabric choices, hell– even color combos. Eventually she settled on a light skydiver’s suit as a base, the one she picked was a deep and inky purple-blue, padded with layers of gauze and shock gel between the inner and outer layer. She got some near-matching fabric to sew wing flaps, in order to sharpen her angles of descent, and a long reel of Tron-esque LED lights. It looked pretty bitchin’.

 

Her wrist was still pretty busted. She had to practice shooting with her left arm, because any kickback would probably re-shatter the mending fractures of her right. Shades offered to switch out her gun with a smaller piece, after all the H&K packed a really big punch with its armor-piercing rounds. Imogen was still thinking it over, even as she added the finishing touches to her costume.

 

"You figure out if you wanna swap in the UCP for something with a little less kick?" Shades asked, popping up over her shoulder with a brown bag in his hand. Queen was sitting cross-legged on the bed, a few sewing pins sticking out of her mouth pointside-out. She looked up at him, pulling the pins from her teeth before she replied.

 

"Yeah. at least until my arm heals. If I crack it any fuckin’ more it's not going to be good, ya know? Don't want to have fucking screws in my arm." Queen stabbed the pins back into their cushion, a red dressmaker’s tomato placed by her feet. “If I can avoid having to worry about the medical benefits to being in the drug trade I think that'll be fuckin peachy."

 

Shades nodded, pulling another gun from inside of his coat. This one was much smaller– a Smith and Wesson revolver. She thought it looked like some sort of cowboy shit, but that made it a bit cooler. He placed it gingerly down on the bed and sat down on the edge, taking a look at her handiwork. "How's the outfit coming along? Looks pretty good so far.”

 

"It'd be coming along a bit easier if I had two working arms and shit but whatever." Queen picked up the top, holding it at eye-level to inspect it for perfection. She had managed to go a few hours without hitting the stuff so that she could get crisp and clean lines, but she was coming close to needing another fix. He nodded back at her, and she gingerly placed the costume back down in her work area. “Glad they fucking taught us shit in Home Ec.” Her voice was barely above a mumble, but Shades heard it and chuckled to himself.

 

"By the way. Those blankets are pretty fuckin nice. Thanks, I guess." Her eyes were focused on her work, unable to meet his while she thanked him. Being grateful was never her strong suit, but since she got here she barely _stopped_.

 

"Yeah, no prob." Shades popped the brown bag next to her, letting the scent of the food waft in her face. She dropped her work and stuck her hand into the bag, as a ravenous hunger was coming over her. He had brought cheap Mexican, nothing special, but she didn’t care about the quality at the moment. "Get some food in you, I got some intel on Sicarios, so we're not flying blind like last time."

 

She was already halfway into a taco, barely paying attention to anything else. A bit of grease dribbled down her chin, causing Shades to roll his eyes at her. "We managed to take out Clamshell, their resident Brute, but here's who we know is left." Imogen grabbed a napkin and wiped off her hands and face, watching as Shades slapped a small business portfolio in front of her. He slid a few dossiers out of it, laying them in the spare space on the bed.

 

"They've got a pyrokinetic shaker - Erupción - who's in charge of the whole operation. He's gotta go down, and fast." Shades handed her the cape’s file, which she immediately opened. "We don't want to fight on their turf if he's got time to turn it into an inferno, so we've got to take him off guard."

 

_Fire. Great._

 

"We're aiming to take them over and just fold them into the Devils, in any case, so if we cut the head off the snake it should go that much smoother." Seemed reasonable enough. Gaining a few extra capes would definitely help them in the move to Cleveland. Shades picked up another pair of dossiers, tossing them her way. "They've got a brute and striker we don't know too much about, but I'm pretty sure as far as resources go we have them outgunned."

 

 _Goliath and Carver._ She flipped through them quickly, absorbing the information as fast as she could. Goliath could grow, up to fifteen feet in size according to the document, and had strength and speed proportional to his size. _Great. More punching_. Carver was a scaly looking Case 53, reptilian in visage with sharp, mantis-like blades where his hands ought to be. _Pretty freaky_.

 

"Obviously, we want more men, more supply routes, more firepower, hence why we're taking them over, but I've got some rumours that they've got a Thinker on board - and if we can get a Thinker on our side, then I'm thinkin' it's time we hit the big leagues." Queen lifted her head from the docs, staring at Shades with a slight nod. "Any questions?"

 

"Don't have too many questions. I don't want to fuck with the poor bastard that looks like his mother fucked a lizard.” She shuddered a bit, trying hard not to think about what it would feel like to be gutted by those things. Imogen put down the file and sighed, turning back towards the man. “Who else is the boss sending?"

 

"It's more or less an all-call, short of a couple of our guys to stay home and hold down the fort." She nodded along, but held her head low. Her strawberry blonde hair was hanging in front of her face, adopting a somber look.

 

"Don't get fucked up, okay Shades? You got it? I'm not carrying your heavy ass back here." She tried to crack a smile, but the idea of him getting hurt _scared her_ for some weird reason. Imogen looked down at her costume, running a finger over the last line of stitches she put in. She had a disdainful scowl on her face, not because of the quality of the work, but because she _really_ needed some drugs. "You got any shit on you?"

 

"Shit, not in my own house, no. If you're really jonesin' for a fix I can grab some product for you, 'bout to go out and run some errands anyways, but don't put that fuckin' needle through your finger." Shades chuckled at her, ruffling her hair once more. Imogen’s cheeks puffed up into a pout. She wasn’t _stupid_.

 

“...not going to put a fucking…” Queen stopped and looked at him, trying to make eye contact through the inky blackness of his signature shades. "For a drug dealer, you're a real stick in the mud.” She stuck out her tongue at him, as if she were trying her hardest to get on his last nerve.

 

“But yeah, I could use some shit if you're gonna pick some up. And you're runnin’ low on conditioner by the way."

 

Shades rolled his eyes at her and stood up, leaving the dossiers scattered on the bed. "Fine, I guess I'm doing a grocery run, too. Do we need, like, eggs, or yogurt, or some shit?"

 

"Think I ate the last of the twinkies sometime last night. Do you need more of your Jamie Lee Curtis helpin-you-shit yogurt or are you _regular_ enough this week?" It was pretty obvious that he was getting annoyed, so she sighed heavily and went back to sewing. "The conditioner was all I noticed."

 

"Well, if that's it, I'm out. Back in a few." He turned and headed out the door, leaving Imogen on her own once more. She unlocked her phone and spent a moment digging through her pages of apps to find the one for iTunes. Now that Shades was gone, she could play her music as loud as she liked.

 

She was putting on the finishing touches, the glowing LED lights, when Shades returned. He was carrying a couple bags of groceries in one hand, and a zip-loc baggie of pills in the other. He dangled the bag in front of her face, pulling it out of the way before she could grab it. She scrambled to grab her phone to turn off the music, letting silence fall back into the room. Shades took a quick cursory glance at Queen’s handiwork, giving a nod of approval.

 

"Nice work. Looks really... fast."

 

Imogen stopped and looked up at him with a _no shit_ expression, her eyes flat and dead. "That's the fuckin point, Douchebag. I go really fast, then get airborne, then crash somewhere so the boss can blast everyone to smithereens." Shades wiggled the bag just out of her reach again, taunting her for her ‘douchebag’ comment. He gave a low chuckle, which only made her angrier.

 

“Can you just fucking give them to me, or am I going to have to grovel and beg?”

 

"As much as I'd like to see it, I think you gotta work on having a shred of dignity, what with having superpowers and all.”

 

“Yeah. I can kick your ass.”

 

“Sure, kid. Save some of the speed tabs for tomorrow, when we hit 'em, yeah?”

 

“Yeah, yeah.” She waved him off, popping a few of the pills with an exasperated sigh. Imogen kicked back, letting her head hit the pillows while she waited for the high to wash over her. It had been _way_ too long since her last hit; getting a fix felt like fucking Jesus himself.

 

"So, tomorrow it is, then.” She sighed heavily, tracing the cracks on the ceiling with her eyes. “Damn, I hope we make them bleed." Queen enjoyed the adrenaline rush she got from fighting Sicarios, and now she had a personal vendetta against them. It was _their_ fault she had limited use of her arm. _Their_ fault that her ribs ached every time she tried to move.

 

"Betcher fuckin' ass," Shades laughed, interrupting her train of rage thought. "we're gonna wreck 'em."

 

"If that Clamshell bastard wasn't already dead, I would fucking SKIN him. I'll have to settle for one of his friends." Queen sat up again, pushing her hair back off of her face. She inhaled sharply, the motion sending a sharp ache through her core. "I just hope I don't fuck up any more of my goddamn ribs."

 

"Well, if you're just about done with your getup, I advise you getting some rest," he suggested. "Gonna hit 'em before the sun comes up." She nodded along, before a sharp pause.

 

"Yeah. Wait. Shades, you're not my fucking DAD. Calm down. I'll grab a shower then fuckin’ sleep. Fuck." Imogen hopped off the bed, taking the sewing supplies with her. She deposited them on the floor in the corner, then looked over to the still-sitting shades. She considered telling him to get the fuck out, but decided against it at the last moment. All he did was roll his eyes at her before fucking off to the kitchen to clean his guns some more.

  
Her shower was quick and uneventful, and she returned to bed with a towel tied on top of her head. The speed tabs were still keeping her going. Unable to sleep, Queen sat up and began running through the gameplan in her head. She practiced drawing her gun with her left hand a few times, tried out a few maneuvers and rolls that might not make her injuries worse. She didn’t want to make it seem like she was guarding anything too much, didn’t want to give them an easy target on her, but she still had to keep things protected.

 

Eventually, satisfied with her practice, Queen lay down, trying to quell the adrenaline running through her system enough to get some rest.

 

 _I think I might actually be looking forward to_ this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm uncertain, verging on doubtful, whether McDonald's would have released their 'all-day breakfast' deal in Earth Bet.
> 
> For us, it happened October 06, 2015, well after Golden Morning, and I think some causal chain of events coinciding to expedite that release wouldn't happen. There are Endbringers to worry about, among other things, and the potential off a fast food chain's 24/7 breakfast deal would likely be overshadowed by the looming of various spectres in the Wormverse.
> 
> It's sad to think that Queen might never know the joys of a hot, piping Egg McMuffin after waking up at 3:30 in the afternoon, but perhaps the Simurgh intervenes in some form. I imagine it's better for the overall chaos and conflict on Bet if the villains who wake up late still get their hash browns, providing that small but crucial boost of morale.


	11. Sicarios 2

Imogen drifted off after some time, falling asleep on top of the blankets. It was more of a collapse than an honest effort to rest; a cry out from her body to chill. However, it seemed like no time before she was awoken by an incessant clamor– Shades’ alarm. She rolled over in the bed to take a look at the clock, the LEDs proclaiming that it was four-thirty in the morning.

 

Queen rose from bed and walked over to the bathroom mirror, taking a good look at herself before screaming, "LET'S DO THIS." 

 

It was early, her body still heavy with sleep as she attempted to pull on her costume. She hopped around on one foot, realizing quickly that the pants had a much snugger fit than she had anticipated. Still, once it was fully on it looked  _ cool _ . 

 

Imogen walked into the main area, her white domino mask and diadem still in her hand, expecting coffee or something to get her roaring and ready to go. She grumbled when she saw that there was none; instead she found Shades sitting at the table, servicing the guns one last time before they left. 

 

“Morning, douchebag.” Imogen said as she slid into the seat next to him at the kitchen table. She took that moment to fix the crown to her head, making sure it was secured tightly in her hair. 

 

“Mornin’,  _ jackass _ .” He slipped the gun back together, the resulting click sounding like music to Imogen’s ears. “Ready to head out?”

 

“Ready as I’ll ever fuckin’ be.” She grabbed the gun she was taking on this mission from the table and slipped it into the holster on her side. This was it. Sure, her first night out had been eventful but now she had a  _ costume _ . Imogen Marshall– Amphetamine Queen. She was a  _ real _ cape. 

 

“Want some breakfast?” He asked as he stood, grabbing the keys to his car off of the counter. “We’ve got a little time.”

 

“Sure!” Imogen cracked a wide smile, and hopped to her feet to follow him. She would never turn down food. They walked down to Shades’ car, and headed off to a McDonald’s drive-thru. The coffee was shit, but the bag full of Egg McMuffins and hashbrowns made up for everything. They parked for a moment in order to eat their breakfast, and as always Imogen tucked in like she had never eaten before in her life.

 

Halfway through his McMuffin, Shades wiped a few stray crumbs off of his clean-shaven face and pulled a baggie from his pocket. It was stuffed full of a beautiful white powder, pure as snow. He tossed it to her, and she managed to catch it before it hit her square in the face. “Preemptive victory meal.”

 

She looked down at it, then pulled it open. It was even more beautiful now that she was looking at it closely. Imogen couldn’t help but dip a finger into it, savoring how silky it felt on her skin. She rubbed it on her gums, barely noticing Shades’ glares. 

 

“Fifty-percent cut with caffeine. If the shit coffee don't wake you up, this will.” He put a hand on top of the bag, giving Imogen a stern frown. “Wait 'til we get there, though, don't want it wearing off too early. Or getting on my seats.”

 

_ Always with the car. _ She frowned and closed it up, but she could already tell it was  _ good shit _ . "Shades, you warm my cold heart. Even though you have a fuckin weird ass thing for your car." Imogen placed the hand of her splinted arm on her chest, faking teary eyes. Shades just shrugged her off as he started the car once again, peeling out of the lot to head to the meet-up site. 

 

They pulled up next to an assembly vehicles belonging to the other Devils. Tremor was half sitting, half crouching on the hood of one of the vans while chewing on an acrid-smelling blunt. He was in the middle of one of his stimulant-fueled rants, yammering on about hitting Sicarios hard and fast. Queen scanned the lot, finding both Freezerburn and Quickfix sitting behind the wheels of their respective vehicles, the latter smirking and twirling a smaller wrench in his hands.

 

Shades exited the car, strolling up to the boss as he slipped his main piece into the holster under his jacket. It was quite obvious that all of Shades’ firearms were much better maintained than those carried by the other Devils: The metal was always pristine and free of dings. "We ready to fuck some shit up?" Queen heard him say as she slipped out of the car behind him. Tremor roared in agreement, pumping one fist into the air.

 

"Let's fuckin' go," Shades said, stepping into a van with an unoccupied driver's seat. Queen came up behind Shades, leaning on one foot while she waited for further instructions. She had a basic idea of what she was supposed to do, but she didn’t want to jump the gun. "Up in the air, Queen - come in once we hit them, and remember, aim for their boss."

 

"I got it. Just don't fucking do anything stupid okay?" She tried to give him as stern of a look as she could muster, but being just under five feet kept her from looking anything near intimidating. Imogen reached her arms out in front of her, planning to crack her knuckles before she remembered that she still couldn’t do that. The realization made her slightly angry, enough to get her fired up. The rest of the fire came from the fat line of speed she snorted off the hood of van. 

 

_ Fuck yeah, ready to go. _ Queen took off into a run, bulleting as fast as she could down the asphalt in order to get into the air faster. The wind began to kick up under her and soon she was flying, soaring above the Devils’ cars with the entire world at her fingertips. Three of the vans peeled off in the direction of the Sicarios hideout, Shades driving one with an amped-up Tremor in the passenger’s seat, and Quickfix and Freezerburn driving their own respective vehicles. 

 

She flew off after them, trying hard not to zoom past their location. Sometimes it was too easy to lose track of everything while in the air. Quickfix pulled up to the building first, making a grand entrance by tossing a sticky mine against the outside of the corrugated iron storage facility. It blew with a  _ bang _ , sending chunks of twisted metal into the air. Queen could hear a cackle, most likely coming from a meth’d up Tremor, the sound followed by the three vans filing through the newly created hole. I was the closest thing to a Michael Bay movie that she had ever seen in real life; it was pretty fucking cool. The only thing was... it meant that the fight would be indoors. Inside she would basically be a caged bird, and that made her nervous.

 

“Fuck…” she mumbled under her breath, though she had to put her faith in the plan that Tremor and Shades had cooked up. If worst came to worst, she could come crashing through the roof. It would probably hurt like hell, but it would kick up a hell of a lot of rubble for the boss to use.

 

Her vision of the fight was obscured from her position, but she could definitely hear the spray of gunfire and blasts from explosions coming from the site. There was an itch forming in the pit of her gut; she wanted to get into the fray and help her team. The orders from Shades were echoing in the back of her head, but the itch was too much. 

 

‘Fuck’ quickly turned to ‘Fuck it’, and Queen began plummeting from the sky towards the roof of the building. The flight assist panels of her costume were definitely making a difference. She felt like her descent was more powerful as she plummeted through the flimsy roof. Her feet punched a hole in the metal, the rest of it buckling into a larger crater as she slipped through it. Everything was going great, at least until she landed. Due to her negligence, she managed to crash land into the center of a crowd of Sicarios thugs.

 

The men began running in different directions, frightened by the crash landing and the incessant screaming. A few of them made it away, but others weren’t so lucky. Shrapnel flew everywhere upon impact, clocking one of the mooks in the face and two more sharply in the chest. Shades took advantage of the distraction, peppering the remaining mooks with a spray of submachine gun fire. 

 

Tremor took advantage of the new supply of shrapnel, sending tiny shards of rock and asphalt through an unfortunate goon’s eye. Quickfix and Freezerburn had their backs to Queen, looking similarly occupied. Still… it didn’t look like there was any sign of any of the Sicarios capes. 

 

Queen pulled her gun, coming up next to Shades with a serious expression on her face. "Couldn't see shit. Thankfully that roof sucked ass." The safety was off, and she was ready to shoot if needed. One of the enemy fucks got into her line of sight and she fired, bracing her injured arm through the kickback. It hurt, but not as much as the H&K would have. She hit him square in the leg, but he didn’t immediately collapse. The gun was too low of a caliber for that. 

 

She turned to look for another mook to pick off, but she became distracted by one of the walls shredding to ribbons. Time seemed to slow down as a giant, three foot tall fist came punching through the wall, tossing aside the metal as if it were paper. Two figures came through the newly formed hole; two monstrous figures. Carver and Goliath.

 

“Oh  _ fuck _ .” Queen said, nearly shitting herself in fear. Her gun would be nearly useless against Goliath’s hulking mass, and for a moment she wished that she had brought the H&K. She stood behind a crate, trying to hide, but staring with wide eyes. She was so focused on their movements, she nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard Shades’ voice behind her. 

 

“Got any bright ideas, Queen?"

 

"Don't fuckin’ die?"

 

"Good call.” Shades growled, sending a spray of bullet fire at the incoming Goliath. The only thing she could think to do was attempt to get some height so that she could kick up more shrapnel for the boss to use. With the ceiling, though, she wasn’t sure she would be able to do it. 

 

Bullets zipped through the air, several grazing or even hitting Goliath’s massive leg. Still he lumbered towards them, completely undeterred by submachine gun fire. On the other side of the room, Carver ducked beneath Freezerburn’s breath. In the same fluid motion, he parried Quickfix’s shotgun blast with the flat of his scythe-like arm. Tremor was screaming, hurling hand grenades at the two enemy capes two at a time.

 

Goliath barely gave a shit about being peppered by shrapnel and gunfire, and Carver was ducking every blow without a second guess. All of that, and Erupción hadn’t even shown his face yet. It seemed like it was do or die, so Queen chose to  _ do _ . She took off into a sprint and launched into the air, crashing down just before she hit the ceiling. Queen plowed through the ground, leaving a trail of rubble in her wake. 

 

“Fuck yeah!” Tremor screamed with a nasty grin, using his power to raise the entire line of debris. Goliath took most of the resulting explosion, huge chunks of shrapnel embedding into his chest. Carver couldn’t dodge the magnitude of Tremor’s assault and he flew through the air, smacking against the wall with a crack. His scales looked pretty intact, but he was going to be out of commission for at least a few moments.

 

Goliath, however, wasn’t deterred by his injuries. He scooped a shipping crate off of a stack and hurled it at Tremor. The boss’ gimp leg caused him to stumble while attempting to dodge the flying box. He landed face first on the ground, the brunt of the crate hitting him in the back. Queen could hear a muffled “Fuuuuuuck!” coming from beneath. 

 

“Boss!” She shouted, her ribs hurting from the sheer amount of sound she had pushed out of her lungs. The dust and debris was blocking her vision, but she tried her best to see through it. “You motherfuckers are going to fuckin’ PAY.” Queen launched back into the air, soaring over Freezerburn while trying to attempt to avoid banging her head on the ceiling.

 

“Ay. Freezerburn. Little help here?” The cape cracked his knuckles with a smile, looking back up at her.

 

“Yeah? Whatcha want?”

 

"Keep him still." She pointed to Goliath, her heart racing the entire time. He nodded in response and turned towards the giant. Freezerburn breathed out a dense cloud of frost, locking up Goliath’s lower legs. There… The opportunity was there, but if she missed she was dead meat. Queen took a deep breath and began her descent. 

 

Goliath swung a fist at her, but without his legs the trajectory was easy to predict. She was able to dive under the blow and use her momentum to linebacker tackle him in the torso. A loud splintering sound assaulted Imogen’s ears, followed by a crash. The giant had toppled over, his torso shattering at the line of ice. A pair of frozen, glimmering legs was all that was left behind.

 

"FUCK YEAH!" Freezerburn roared. "That was BRUTAL!"

 

Carver had regained his footing, pulling himself up from the wall to advance towards Quickfix. The tinker kept pumping shells at him, though each was immediately deflected by Carver’s nimble blades. With Goliath out of the way and Carver occupied, Queen jogged over to check on the boss.

 

Tremor was lying under the crate and groaning. He sounded fine, as he wasn’t screeching in pain, but the crate wasn’t coming off of him any time soon. She was focused on trying to find a way to free him when she felt the ground rumble beneath her. Her heart raced as she dashed away, just in time to avoid a spray of fire from where she had just been standing.

 

_ Great. Erupción is here. _ "Fucking HELL." There was still an abomination to take out, and now they were facing  _ fire _ . Freezerburn was going to be useless against this guy, and even if he wasn’t… the same trick wouldn’t work twice. To top it all off, the boss was still stuck and Imogen didn’t know what to do to help. “We’ve got company!” 

 

Sweeping the room from his cover, Shades’ voice cracked slightly, his tone tinged with panic. "Where the fuck is he!?" Queen swallowed hard. When Shades was panicking, she knew that shit was getting real. 

 

On the other side of the room, Carver had nearly closed the gap to Quickfix, his scythes humming in the air. The Devil pulled the trigger on his shotgun again, but was met with the click of an empty barrel. He tossed the now-useless gun to the side and pulled his trusty crescent wrench off of his back. Quickfix was holding it like a major-league batter getting ready to step up to the plate, sweat pooling in his upper lip.

 

On her other side, Freezerburn ducked for cover, tucking and rolling in an attempt to find a place to hide from Erupción. No one can seem to get a read on him, their eyes flicking from corner to corner in paranoid panic.

 

"Fuckfuckfuckfuck." Queen muttered, pulling her gun again to get ready to shoot if she saw anyone move. She watched in horror as the ground began to hum again. Shades attempted to roll out of the way, but he wasn’t fast enough. Another wave of flames burst from the ground, the fire licking at his leg as he swore loudly. “Shades!” She shouted, taking to the air again to avoid being burnt by another assault.

 

Freezerburn had given up on finding Erupción, and instead ran over to Quickfix to give him a hand with Carver. The cape exhaled as soon as he was within range, but Carver sidestepped the cone. He swung his arm, bringing the scythe down on Quickfix. The tinker reacted quickly, shoving his crescent wrench upwards to deflect the blow. However, the mutant’s scythe sliced through the galvanized metal like hot butter, landing dangerously close to Quickfix’s chest. 

 

Queen was desperately scanning the room in an attempt to locate the leader of Sicarios. Still, she had no luck. Shades was putting out the fire on his leg, Freezerburn and Quickfix were occupying Carver enough, and the boss was still trapped under the crate. She knew if she hit it head on, it would only cause more problems for Tremor. She wondered though if she could get it off of him by hitting it from the side. It was at least worth a shot.

 

She did a mid-air loop, angling herself with her fists pointed outward like a full fucking Alexandria package. She pounded into the side of the crate, making a huge dent in the side as it rolled off of Tremor’s body. The boss pulled himself to his knees and coughed a few times, glad to finally be free. "Thanks," he choked out, between wheezes, "That fucking sucked."

 

"It looked like it.” Queen looked around again, but her search was still turning up blank. “Shit, boss. We need to get rid of that motherfucker." The ground was still not a safe place, not until they could teach Erupción a lesson or two. She sprung back into the air, flying over to Shades’ location.

 

Freezerburn exhaled again, catching Carver off-guard as he attempted to extract his scythe from Quickfix’s wrench. The mantis’ arms iced over, scythes still caught in the bitterly cold wrench. Quickfix relinquished grip of the tool, cackling as the ground began to rumble beneath him. When a burst of fire rushed over him, he stood there and laughed even more as the flames burned over his armor. "Your bitch ass is gonna need hotter flames than that, Erupción!"

 

Tremor slowly picked himself off of the ground, still coughing, while an orbital of debris rose around him. Still, it was Shades and Queen who spotted Erupción. The man was slight and cloaked in a black bodysuit, blending in almost perfectly with the shadows and lurking behind one of the crates. "Found you, you bastard!" Shades yelled, unloading a barrage of gunfire in his general direction. The bullets tore through the steel container, each hitting with a ping. Thankfully, one of the bullets reached its target, punching itself through Erupción’s gut. 

 

"Shades, you magnificent bastard." Queen calls, smiling before she went for another dive. This time, she was hoping to knock the shipping container on top of Erupción. It didn’t budge, but the crates on top of it began to sway. They were falling, and all Erupción could do was watch as he clutched his stomach wound. The containers slammed to the floor with a sudden and final crash. 

 

All was silent for a moment, as Carver was still frozen in place, before Tremor broke the silence with a loud and booming, “Fuck yeah!” punctuated by a series of messy and wet-sounding coughs. Queen cringed at the sound, it was making her ribs twinge. 

 

Nervously, she walked over to Shades to make sure that he was okay. Her whole body was still vibrating with adrenaline, her voice quiet as she asked, "Did we... actually fucking do it?"

 

"Hell yeah.” He said, brushing cinders off of his leg. It didn’t look too bad, barely second degree in its worst places. After a few applications of ointment it should be good as new. The Devils were all absorbed in assessing each other’s injuries, barely noticing as another figure walked through the gap left by Carver and Goliath.

 

"Ah, I do hope I'm not interrupting anything here.” The man walked forward, the air around him feeling… gross. He was slightly below average height, hispanic… His hair was neatly slicked back and his face cleanly shaven. "Carver, if you happen to regain mobility any time soon, stand down, won't you? It wouldn't do to have you interrupt my business negotiations."

 

The lizard man nodded, and the intruder turned back to the Devils. He watched as Tremor was half on the ground, coughing up quite a large amount of blood. The man looked away in disgust, scanning the remaining members with a furrowed brow. "Err, would there be a second-in-command I could speak to?"

 

"Shades, looks like you're up." Queen said as she raised her gun again, making sure that he knew that he wouldn’t be able to try any funny business with them. 

 

"Whaddaya want, asshole?" Shades leveled his submachine gun with the man’s gut, his face curled in a savage frown.

 

"First of all - congratulations are in order, it seems. Well done, the lot of you." The man was  _ clapping _ . "Second of all - I am Erupción's lieutenant, Mala Suerte. Allow me to explain why I find myself so pleased at my former employer's demise."

 

_ What a fucking asshole _ .

 

"Erupción's uncle was the one who founded the Sicarios - a clever man by far, we left our home country and sought out opportunity here. With his uncle's death, leadership of the group passed to Erupción, by all accounts a reckless fool who took more pleasure in property damage than profit."

 

_ Right. _

 

"It would be pointless to follow a gang being driven into the ground by such an incompetent leader, and so I orchestrated this event for the sake of both of our mutual benefits - I would like to align my interests with yours - seek out business in better climes, yes?"

 

"It must be so frustrating to be a big fish in a little pond." Shades barked. He continued to hold the SMG at Suerte, only pausing to light a cigarette.

 

_ Holy Shit. _ Queen knew that he always carried a pack of smokes on him, she bummed enough off of him to be sure of that, but she had never actually seen him smoke. 

 

"Thanks for putting our necks on the line for that little stunt, then, jackass. Not a nice way to treat your new pals, huh?" He puffed away on it, the lot of them watching as Mala Suerte raised his palms in a gesture of peace. 

 

"Oh, no, no, rest assured - you had my assistance from behind the scenes. That is, after all, my power - a little nudge, here and there - a drop of bad luck, snowballing into an avalanche." Imogen didn’t like this guy; he seemed slimy and oilier than a filet-o-fish. 

 

Shades took a long drag on his cigarette, then flicked the ash onto the ground. "Well, fuck. We did say we wanted some new capes - Queen, what do you think?"

 

Her heart nearly stopped. She didn’t know what to do! Her job was to fly and shoot things, not make crucial decisions for the good of the gang. "You're putting this up to me? Shit, Shades. He seems slippery as hell, but we might need the bastard." Queen bit her lip, hoping desperately that she wasn’t making the wrong choice. 

 

"I guess we can take him."

 

"You look and sound like a right bastard, but you're right - we do want to get a crack at the bigger slice, and we're gonna need the extra firepower." Shades dropped his smouldering butt to the ground, Imogen watching him from the corner of her eye before she finally lowered her gun. 

 

Quickfix was chatting with the slowly thawing Carver, a look of pure excitement on his face. "You cool with that, Carver? I ain't got any hard feelings, you wanna roll with us I'm down, that was fuckin' badass! Fuckin' knocking every single goddamn shotgun shell off to the side, fuck, dude, I want you on MY team."

 

Shades looked over at Tremor, who was slowly standing up again. It seemed like blood had finally stopped dripping from his lips, so now seemed as good of a time as any to ask him. "Sound alright with you, Boss?"

 

Tremor gave Shades a pained thumbs up, before falling back to his knees. "Hey, you fuckin' demolished the asshole who threw the crate at me, so I'm cool. Revenge is satisfied, and all that."

 

Shades lifted an eyebrow behind his glasses, cocking a small smile. "Well, you heard the boss, looks like you two are on."

 

Suerte gave a slight bow, his grin still smarmy as hell. "It'll be a pleasure to work with you, I'm sure."

 

Carver half shrugged, still frozen in a number of places, but agreed. Yeah, ssure. I go where the money goess.” His voice had a hissing undertone to it, but Queen figured it wasn’t  _ his _ fault that his mouth was shaped that funny.

  
  


"Well then. Looks like this went really fuckin well." Queen said, taking another look around the rubble-covered room. "Shades, you think we should get the boss to a doctor?"

 

"Nah, I got this." Quickfix said as he walked over to the boss. He went to town, his battlefield triage on point. Tremor got a compress to the ribs, an injection of a cocktail of coagulants and painkillers… Queen watched him work and felt pretty glad to have him on their team. Without Quickfix, she probably wouldn’t have made it off the streets that night. 

 

Shades looked over at Queen, cracking a smile on his dirt-tinged face. "Well, it's only a quarter 'til six in the morning. I'm gonna go buy some new goddamn pants."

  
  
  



	12. Interim

With Carver and Mala Suerte on their side, the Devils were on fire. Everything seemed to be going even better than planned. Queen was healing up nicely, every day her ribs hurt a little less. She was even taking up running again. It took a little longer for her arm to heal up; she had really done a number on it, but managed to avoid any permanent damage. 

 

Every day she did a little more training with the Devils, learning fighting and maneuvers from both the capes and mooks alike, and every night she spent time with Shades, cleaning all the guns that he kept around. She even got free drugs and a pretty snazzy MacBook out of the deal. All in all, she was pretty much living the life. 

 

The plans to move into Cleveland were underway. Tremor and Shades were taking quite a few field trips to the city to scout out territory, and it seemed like the city was ripe for the picking. It was all so exciting, and the prospect of success in the big city was making Queen  _ want _ to train harder. She was still slamming back lines of coke and popping speed tabs like it was her goddamn job, but she was working hard. 

 

Still, not everyone was as stoked for the move as she was. It was another one of the Devils’ weekly meetings when the news broke. Tremor was on top of a table as usual, slurring and stumbling as he tried to give a rousing speech. 

 

“Get ready, because we’re gonna take fuckin’ CLEVELAND!” He pumped a fist into the air, and half of the room erupted into cheers. The other half, however, were mumbling gripes and swears.

 

“I have a  _ kid _ , Boss. I can’t get up and move!” One of the low-level dealers shouted. A few had similar sentiments, some were minors with no say in the matter, and others just couldn’t be bothered to leave. It was frustrating to many degrees. Queen saw the Devils as her family, and these people couldn’t even be bothered to follow them to their new heights. She’d kick their asses if she could: break their kneecaps and make them scream her name.

 

Imogen was a little unsettled by how desensitized she had become to violence. Hell, she  _ killed  _ people with serious intent and the only thing she could say was ‘he had it coming.’ Out of all of her confirmed kills, though, Erupción was the only one she could say deserved it. While Shades’ injuries had been extremely minor, the idea of him getting hurt still pissed her off. Her first impression of him had been seriously skewed. He was actually a really cool guy, and she respected him highly.

 

“Shut the fuck up!” She found herself yelling, the dealer turning to look at her with an angry frown. 

 

“The fuck’d you say?”

 

“I  _ said _ , shut the fuck up!” Queen stood up, though that didn’t make her any more intimidating, her fists curling into tight balls. Shades was glaring at her, obviously trying to advise  _ her _ to shut the fuck up, but Tremor was definitely feeling it. 

 

“That’s fuckin’ right! You ain’t coming? You can get the FUCK out!” He roared. A small amount of shrapnel rose up behind him, floating and twitching erratically in the air. The dealer was stunned, pouting and protesting as if that would get Tremor to change his mind. That only angered him more, causing him to let out a near animalistic roar. “I SAID GET THE  _ FUCK _ OUT.” 

 

The shrapnel shot out in front of him, hitting the dealer in his chest and arms. He wasn’t hit hard, not like some of Tremor’s grisly kills, but he was still left pretty bloodied. With that last shout, he ran towards the door. Several other mooks and cronies ran after him, taking Tremor up on the order to get the fuck out. The remaining men– they were the ones they could depend on. 

 

“Now, who’s ready to fuckin’ go to Cleveland?” Tremor shouted. The room erupted into roars of excitement and celebration. They were about to hit the big leagues.

 

Shades’ apartment had become Queen’s impromptu training dojo. He was schooling her on techniques, hoping to increase her skills in battle. Instead of sitting on the couch and watching HBO all day, she was learning things that could end up saving her life. 

 

Imogen stood across from Shades, her hands raised in fists in front of her. She threw a punch, hoping to hit the padded glove he was wearing, but he ducked out of the way. The momentum of her throw sent her off balance, falling to the padded mat they had set up underneath them. 

 

“Come on, Queen. You can fuckin’ do better than that.” He sounded annoyed with her, which pissed her off. Imogen got to her feet, glaring at him on the way up.

 

“Fuck you, I’m trying!” She snapped as she threw another punch, this time making contact with her target. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!” Each successive blow made contact with the glove. She only missed when he held his hand too high for her to reach. 

 

“That’s better.”

 

“You’re a fuckin’ asshole.” She muttered, wiping sweat off of her brow. Queen was about to go for another round, when Shades’ phone started ringing. It took barely a second for him to notice and pick up. 

 

“Sorry, kid. Need to take this.” He wandered off into the other room, keeping her from hearing any juicy details.  _ Weird _ . Then again, Shades had been busy since they folded Sicarios into their organization. He had been overseeing most of the assets they seized, making sure that every last penny was accounted for. His accounting was verging on the obsessive, but hey. She really wasn’t the one to judge.

 

Imogen sighed, feeling dejected as her workout was cut short. She was at the top of her game! She felt like she could fight anyone and anything. At least, that’s how she felt when she was able to get her hands on her next fix. 

 

She made her way to the bathroom, hoping to shower off the funk from working out. It was funny, how much she had managed to wiggle her way into Shades’ man-cave. The soaps and shampoos with manly scents had been shoved to the side, replaced with pink and purple bottles labeled ‘Sweet Pea’ and ‘Velvet Sugar.’ Her shaving razor was perched on the side of the bathtub, and a bright pink loofa hung from the shower’s knob. The bathroom sink was littered with her eyeliners and mascara, eyeshadows and lipstick. Shades wasn’t even that old, but somehow he managed to acquire a teenage daughter.

 

Imogen’s showers were usually quick, out of habit from rehab. She had herself washed and dried in under ten minutes, giving herself plenty of time to slip into a comfy pair of pajamas. It was still early in the afternoon, but the Devils had no evening plans. Most likely she would just sit at the kitchen table with Shades and clean the guns  _ again _ . She emerged from the bathroom, running a towel through her hair before discarding it onto the floor. She’d catch shit from Shades for that later, but at the moment she didn’t care. 

 

The living room was empty. Imogen figured that Shades had stepped out, probably to run errands for the boss to ease their transition into Cleveland. They were already starting to pack, though only here and there. She was fishing around the drawers in the kitchen, looking for a pack of cigarettes, when she heard Shades’ voice.

 

“...I’ll have it within the year.” 

 

_ What? _ Imogen crept closer to the wall, trying to press her ear to it to hear more. It wasn’t  _ exactly _ spying. She was just  _ curious _ . 

 

“...big break.”

 

_ Is he talking about Cleveland? _

 

“All right. We’ll be in touch.” Queen heard footsteps coming towards the bedroom door, making her scramble in panic. She grabbed the pack of cigarettes and ran towards the balcony, trying to look like she had been smoking all along. The glass door slid behind her, and Shades joined her on the balcony. 

 

“Hey, Shades.” She said, taking a long drag on her cigarette. 

 

“Hey, kid. Sorry about cuttin’ training short.” He looked over at her, frowning a bit. There was something that  _ bugged _ him about how little Imogen cared for her health. Sure, he enabled her by giving her drugs at the drop of a hat but it was still  _ odd _ . “The fuck’d you end up smoking? You’re fuckin’  _ twelve _ .”

 

“Sixteen, Jackass.” She inhaled again, then blew a long wave of smoke into his face. He rolled his eyes at her and swatted the smog from in front of him. “My parents sucked. Started it as a way to fuckin try to get them to pay attention to me but… turns out I liked myself better on drugs. And they  _ still _ didn’t fuckin’ care.” 

 

“They’re looking for you, ya know.”

 

“What? You saw that sob story article too?” Imogen looked off of the balcony, into the sunset. Shades swore he saw her tear up a bit, but she blinked them back quick enough to keep any from falling. “They’re trying to save face.”

 

“I won’t argue with ya, kid. You know your folks better than I do.”

 

“Yeah.” She dropped her butt on the ground, watching as it smoldered and petered out in the wind. They didn’t matter anymore. She had a new life now; a new family.

 

“Don’t worry, Queen. Soon we’ll both be on to bigger and better things.” She nodded, trusting that he was right. Still, something was nagging in the back of her gut… Listening to Shades, watching him stare out into the horizon…

 

She had a strange feeling that he wasn’t talking about Cleveland.   
  



	13. Jetstream

The transition to Cleveland went smoother than anyone had ever expected. Sometime before their arrival, the leader of one of the bigger gangs in town went missing. This threw Blackjack into disarray, effectively dissolving it. The Dust Devils were able to scoop up a lot of their old territory. In fact, their new base was a building previously owned by Blackjack, used as a safe house during their reign. 

 

Queen was settling in to town nicely, making herself at home rather quickly in their new base. She was still sharing an apartment with Shades, partly because she enjoyed annoying him and partly because they had managed to grow fond of each other. 

 

The Devils had taken a large chunk of territory in the area, centering around Case Western Reserve University. They had quickly gone to work dealing to the local college students, moving large amounts of product through the city in no time. Queen had been out on jobs here and there, mostly keeping aerial tabs to make sure nothing went wrong. On most of the jobs she had been on, nothing had. It was kind of boring in a way, especially after her initiation into the Devils had been spent smearing members of Sicarios into the pavement. 

 

Carver had integrated well into the Devils. He was a little strange, and sometimes Imogen was still a bit scared of his intimidating looks, but he seemed to be a pretty nice guy overall. Mala Suerte, however, seemed to lurk in the shadows. She could count the number of times she had actually seen him on less than one hand, and each time had been rather unpleasant. He had such a slippery persona, one that made her want to puke and shower. 

 

Even after a successful move into the city, they had been laying low. While Blackjack was gone, and the local protectorate was in a scramble after the loss of their leader, there were still powerful gangs in the city. The Huangtian. The 14K. The Borgata. Stepping on anyone’s toes was bound to be a recipe for a bad time, so they were mostly  _ waiting. _

 

The waiting game was driving Imogen crazy. She spent most of her days in the base, surfing the net or practicing battle maneuvers that she wasn’t even able to use. Still, she was managing to carve out her own little space in the apartment. New sheets, a new mattress… There were no posters on the wall, but she had managed to litter clothes and shoes all over the floor. Her costume was housed on a dress form in the corner of the room, taunting her for every moment she didn’t get to put it on. 

 

She had been asleep during the Devils’ first big victory in town. Tremor and Freezerburn had gone out early that morning with a group of mooks, rushing into St. Clair-Superior to rob some rich dude’s house. They had been running a little low on funds since their arrival, and the boss had wanted enough to pad their accounts with. The Protectorate showed up on their way out of the house, which led to a squabble between the two. From what Imogen had heard, Freezerburn managed to ice over the entire lake. It was pretty fucking sweet, especially when she flew over it later that day. The Protectorate retreated after Tremor destroyed the Ward Kickflip’s tinker skateboard, giving the Devils their first victory in Cleveland.

 

“We really did it, didn’t we?” Queen was sitting at the kitchen table with Shades, a large number of disassembled guns placed on top of it. She had her signature H&K in front of her, but she had her gaze on Shades.

 

“It’s not over yet, kid.” He said, punctuating his statement with the  _ click _ of a revolver’s chamber snapping into place. “Don’t get too damn excited. There’s still a lot of work to do before we can rest easy.”

 

“I know  _ that _ .” Imogen pouted. She quickly went back to meticulously cleaning her gun, lest Shades do it for her. He would definitely do a better job than she would, but there was something  _ intimate _ about working on the firearms. This was the piece that had been bestowed to her, and it had treated her well. “I’m saying… I don’t know what I’m fuckin’ saying. 

 

“I got it.” Queen wasn’t sure if he actually did, or if he just wanted to save himself from hearing her rambling. He was kind of used to it now, but there  _ was _ such a thing as too much. “Just don’t get too goddamn cocky, Queen.”

 

“You don’t have to fuckin’ call me that here.” She placed the bottle of gun oil down and leaned back in her chair, placing her feet on a free space on the table. “You already know my secret identity.”

 

“You don’t fuckin’ call me by  _ my _ name.”

 

“Okay,  _ Marc _ .”

 

“Fine,  _ Imogen _ .” She looked down, frowning a little.

 

“I think I like Genny better,” Queen shrugged a little, “It’s what I always went by. My name’s pretentious as  _ fuck _ .”

 

“Your parent’s like Shakespeare or something?”

 

“Mom wanted people to  _ think _ she liked Shakespeare.” Her expression was full of hate and disdain. “It was all about keeping up fuckin’ appearances with them.”

 

“I’ll stick with  _ Queen _ , then.” Shades rose from his chair and ruffled her hair, which only made her pout more. She  _ wasn’t _ a little kid. She  _ killed _ a man! Two, even. Still, she knew deep down she was just a naive idiot. 

 

“Deal,  _ Shades _ .”

 

The Devils gained and lost a new cape in a matter of days. Doubledown, a former Blackjack member, was around for like a day and a half before he was swept back up into the other gang’s slimy grasp. Until then, the Devils didn’t even  _ know _ some douchebag was trying to raise the dead gang. Freezerburn managed to run before he got fucked up the ass like Doubledown did, but it was still a  _ loss _ for them. 

 

They managed to bounce back fast, though, on a fight against the Borgata on their own turf. Well, Queen wasn’t sure they could really call it a fight. Quickfix, Carver, and Freezerburn showed up, but the most eventful thing to happen was a showdown between Freezerburn and the Borgata’s Burn Notice. The clash of the burns ended with the creation of a large cloud of steam. Both sides decided they didn’t want to fuck with the mess the other could create, and everyone went home. No one  _ really _ won, but no one really lost either. As far as Imogen was concerned, it was a win.

 

“I’m worried,” Imogen said. She was reclining on the couch, munching on a bag of Cheetos Puffs with a frown on her face. “We’ve been here for nearly two weeks and all we’ve done is freeze a lake and create a big-ass cloud of steam.”

 

“Don’t be too eager to start fights, Queen.” Shades said, flicking the TV on. It was already stationed on the local news channel, probably due to Shades’ paranoia.

 

“We have to do  _ something _ . Sure, the Borgata doesn’t want to fuck with Freezerburn but what about that fucker that took out Doubledown? Shouldn’t we fuck him up?” She put the bag of Cheetos down and began licking the cheese off of her fingers, gaining an eye roll from Shades.

 

“We’re  _ handling _ it.” He opened his mouth to say something else, but shut up as soon as the TV blared ‘ _ Breaking News Bulletin.’ _

 

“...ice responded to a robbery at Cleveland State University early this morning. The thief broke into the CSU Chemistry Department’s stockroom, making off with several items. Police say the thief identified himself as a cape, calling himself, Invic– ” Shades shut off the TV, frowning at the now-black screen.

 

"I'm just saying, Shades. Like, I don't want to fuck with the Protectorate. Especially if we don't have to. The boss goes up against them again, he could end up in jail.” It was clear to Shades that she hadn’t absorbed a single drop of information from that news broadcast. “I get caught up in that? They'll stick me in the Wards, keep me off the drugs, and put my face on a fucking cereal box or something." Shades nodded along with her rambling, though he seemed more interested in cleaning his SMG than listening to her. 

 

“Heh.  _ You _ as a Ward?”

 

"Would you buy my shitty cereal, Shades?" 

 

“You  _ wish _ I would buy your shitty cereal.” He cracked a smile, which only made Queen laugh harder.

 

"But, we need to fuck up some of the other bastards in this town." She was back to serious talk, and that made Shades nervous. The kid barely knew what she was talking about half the time.

 

"I mean, yeah," He said, looking up from his firearm, "but you gotta look at the other side of the coin, y'know?"

 

“Coin?”

 

"You remember when we fucked up Erupción. That motherfucker bit it hard - if we tangle with the hero capes, we get tossed in jail. We fuck with the big boys, shit could get a lot worse."

 

"I guess you're right.” She sat up from the couch, pulling herself so she was sitting criss-cross-applesauce with her hands in her lap. A dejected sigh escaped from her lips, her body craving the action and danger that gang life promised. “I don't want to end up flayed on the side of a highway either. Whoever we fuck up we have to do it soon and fast. Has the boss said anything?"

 

"Boss's said a lot of things, most of them sounding like 'KILL', or 'FUCK'." Shades shook his head with a sigh, watching as Queen giggled at the mental image. "If Blackjack sticks their head up again, we fuck with 'em, hit 'em while they're still soft."

 

“Sounds good. But hopefully it’ll be  _ soon _ .” Imogen dumped herself over to the side on the couch, punctuating her ennui-tinged tantrum with a flailing of her legs. 

 

"I don't really want to mess with the Borgata or 14K, but knowing Boss, he'll send us in to fuck with one or the other." He shook his head. "Gotta get a bigger gun."

 

"Bigger gun? You compensatin' for something there?" She rose to her feet, walking to Shades to peer over his shoulder. He looked back over at her with a frown, rolling his eyes.

 

"Yeah, I'm compensating for something. I'm compensating for not having any _ goddamn superpowers _ , you tool."

 

"I swear Shades, sometimes I wanna punch you in the fuckin TEETH." Imogen sat down next to her mentor, pulling one of the other guns closer to her reach. If she wasn’t going to fight, she might as well make herself useful. “Blackjack is the group of card motherfuckers, right? Fuckin’  _ losers _ . We should skin them while they SLEEP."

 

"Damn right," he growled, "but short of that one sleepytime motherfucker Freeze ran into the other night, we got shit-all to go on. Shades put the gun back together with a loud  _ crack _ , startling the coked-up Imogen. 

 

"Can we send any of the low levels out to gather info? Or are we stuck in here with our thumbs up our asses while we scramble to kill them?” She got up again, completely restless. “Damnit. I need a cigarette."

 

“You know where the fuck they are.” Shades expected her to go grab them– to fuck off and get out of his hair for two seconds, but instead she began pacing around the room so hard that he thought she would wear a hole into the floor.

 

"Jesus, I want to  _ shoot _ someone. We've been here for two weeks and I haven't gotten to even blow some guy’s kneecaps out yet!" He was going to say something to her, his mouth was open and ready. However, before he could get any words out they heard a loud  _ bang _ . Tremor came through the front door, grumbling and bumbling with a grin on his face.

 

"Goddamn right, Queen!" Tremor roared, clapping the girl on the back. "I didn't get to fuck up NEAR as many people as I'd've liked to this morning."

 

“Having the spare key doesn’t mean you can fuckin’ barge in whenever you want.” Shades groaned, a look of pure disdain on his face.

 

"So you wanna know what we're gonna do today?" Tremor was obviously hopped up on something. His pupils were as wide as his irises and there was still white powder caked at the bottom of his nostrils. Tremor and Queen were definitely kindred spirits.

 

"We gonna fuck somebitches up?" The boss’ enthusiasm was always infectious with her, seducing her into following him in his poor decisions. She was just a kid. Shades couldn’t blame her much, all of that was riding on the grown-ass man standing in his living room screaming like a loon.

 

"You bet your sweet ass we are," he cackled. "Let's go knock over a motherfucking armored bank transport!" Nothing had even happened yet, and Shades  _ knew _ that this was going to be a bad idea. Still, trying to reason with Tremor was worse than talking to a wall.

 

"God, I love fucking people up.” Imogen walked over to the table and plucked her gun from the array of firearms. It felt good in her hands, like it belonged there. She grabbed a magazine from where Shades stored them, then turned to walk to the bedroom to get her costume on. Halfway there she paused and turned to face the two men, excitement burning in her eyes. “Boss, did you bring any shit with you?"

 

"Go fuckin' nuts.” Tremor tossed her a half-emptied bag of white powder, probably the same stuff he snorted before he got there. She rubbed a bit of the powder on her gums, nearly shitting herself from how  _ stoked _ she was.

 

"You're a fuckin SAINT, Tremor." Queen completed her sprint into the bedroom and got into her costume in record time. Before she put on her mask, however, she poured two fat lines on the bathroom counter. Imogen knew Shades didn’t like her doing drugs in the apartment, but shit this stuff was  _ good _ . She quickly snorted them, then did her best to clean up the residue. It hit her soon, and it hit her  _ hard _ . Her mask was barely on her face when she ran out of the bedroom to rejoin the two men. "I'm ready to fuckin GO."

 

"Let's go, you nitwits. It's not like the fucking Protectorate will stop us or anything," Shades hated always getting stuck being the voice of reason. "Anyone else you think should tag along for this fiasco?"

 

Queen tapped her chin, trying to decide what she should say. "Keep our capes close. Never know if we'll get fucked up or not.” She plopped down on the couch, stuck in the bliss of her high. “Jesus, I really don't want to fuck with the Protectorate. Buncha assholes." 

 

Shades managed to grab Quickfix and Carver for the job. Freezerburn was out of commission, trying to recover from the steam burns he sustained during the scuffle with the Borgata. The whole shindig seemed to be capes-only, with the addition of Shades. Hell, he was so competent that he practically  _ was _ their last cape. Mala Suerte had been there five months, but still… Imogen wasn’t quite sure what he  _ did _ .

 

"You motherfuckers ready?" Tremor asked as they pooled into the base. He cocked a gun for emphasis, even though he didn’t really need one. Truth be told, he wasn’t even remotely  _ good _ at handling firearms. "Let's go make us some cold, hard cash."

 

“Fuck yeah!” Queen shouted in response, hopping up and down. “Let’s do this!” The Devils loaded up, Queen taking the passenger’s seat in the van that Shades was driving while the other two capes piled in behind Quickfix. Carver looked actually enthusiastic; it kind of warmed Imogen’s heart. His scaly visage aside, the drugs that most of the gang members took part in had no effect on his unique physiology.

 

As soon as she got into the car, Queen threw her feet up on the dashboard. Her whole body was vibrating with excitement, only accelerated by the coke. "Can't wait to bash some skulls in. God, this is so much better than geometry class, ya know?"

 

"Whatever. We're about to get fucked up by the Protectorate, probably. Not really the time to worry." Shades frowned, his eyes locked on the road. The offhanded comment made Queen go ghost-white, squirming in her seat. "Ehh, you'll be fine - you can always fly the fuck away, I'm sure."

 

“Looks like our stop.” Imogen said as she looked out the window. Shades didn’t need the directing, but it still felt better to say it than not. As good as the coke was making her feel, it was also upping her anxiety levels. She was sweating buckets, her heart pounding like a jackhammer. The stuff that Tremor had given her was good.  _ Too _ good. It was probably one of the cleanest cuts of cocaine she had ever put up her nostrils, but it was eating her from the inside out. She chewed idly on her lip, breaking skin, while her nails scratched at an itch that wasn’t there.

 

Shades parked the car, pulling up next to Quickfix and the others. They all hopped out and congregated in the lot, everyone standing in a circle and twiddling their thumbs. It was quiet, awkwardly quiet. Shades was the one who decided to break the silence, pulling his newly acquired backup piece from inside of his coat.

 

"Well, if it's on schedule, we can expect the shipment soon. Ain't much I can do to assholes in riot gear without getting sentenced to fuckin' Pluto and back, what with only having lethal weapons and all.” He chuckled slightly, a dark expression on his sunglasses-clad face. “You guys have it fuckin' easy. Three strikes rule? Pffft. I'd get the death penalty."

 

"Easy? Shit, sometimes a cape just barely fucks up and they're in the birdcage. Doubt they'd throw me in there. I'm too young and cute.” Queen was pacing now, nearly sick to her stomach with the anxiety coursing through her veins. “Shit though. Shit, shit, shit. Fuck. I'm gonna go shoot someone okay? Fuck." She wandered over to the other capes, leaving Shades to lean against the van by himself.

 

"The fuck do we do this without pissing off the Protectorate?" Queen asked Tremor, who was too busy mumbling ‘fuck’ under his breath to do anything productive. "Doubt a crash land to it will do anything but stop it from moving…” She paused, taking a moment to look over their players. 

 

“Carver, how sharp are your.... scythes? Is that the proper term? Sorry I don't want to be fucking insensitive."

 

"I can cut through ssteel, the truck issn't likely to give me much trouble," Carver said. "Jusst keep it sstill so I can sslice it open." It really  _ wasn’t _ his fault that he sounded scary, his mouth was just shaped funny.

 

“Good. Boss, maybe you can use some of the rubble to help bust it open?" Still, she could get no useful answers out of Tremor. He had moved on from ‘fuck’ to muttering ‘kill’ over and over again. It seemed pretty obvious that he was going to be nothing more than dead weight. "Fucking beautiful. I'll stomp that shit to the ground. You cut it open, Carver. We grab the money and fucking RUN. Sound good, boss?"

 

"HELL YEAH!" Tremor shouted, though they were all pretty sure he would have screamed that, no matter what Queen had said. Still, she took it as a sort of tacit approval. The time for the arrival of the van was ticking closer and closer, and every moment was getting more and more nerve wracking. Every shadow was too vivid, making her jump right out of her skin. She could feel her heart pounding in the back of her throat, her eyes darting all over. 

 

_ I’m gonna punch through that fucking van. Knock it right the fuck over. Fuck yeah. Fuck yeah, let’s do this. _ Queen looked at each of her teammates before deciding to take off into the air. Getting up high would allow her to get good visuals on the truck, and that would better her position to hit it. The minutes ticked by as she did tricks in the air, rolling around in the wind with a nervous grin on her face. 

 

_ There _ . There it was. The squat, taupe-colored vehicle was coming straight in their direction. As soon as she caught sight of it, she began her steep descent. Queen rolled around in the air, adjusting her position so that she would be able to barrel into the side of it. It seemed like she was flying faster than usual, but that could have just been the drugs altering her perception.

 

Regardless of reality versus perception, she was able to hit her target. Imogen managed to hit the truck hard and high enough that it was knocked off of its center of gravity, toppling over with a loud  _ thud. _ Now that the truck had successfully been immobilized, the remaining Devils emerged from the shadows to help free their spoils from its depths. She turned to look at Carver, who was already starting to swipe at the underbelly, but was caught off-guard by the few guards attempting to emerge from the truck.

 

"Gonna shoot some fuckers..." Queen sang as she drew her gun, a wicked and cruel smile on her face. She spun it around her finger, then flicked off the safety as she marched towards the first guard. With a quick pull of the trigger, she managed to down him. The UCP shot pierced through his body vest, punching him straight in the chest. He fell to his knees, clutching at his wound, all the while Queen cackled. 

 

_ Christ. That was a good shot. _

 

Tremor looked to be at a loss… there was no debris around for him to explode. To compensate for his lack of utility, he began firing indiscriminately at the guards. Only one of his shots hit anything useful. The bullet hit one of the guards in an exposed part of his torso, causing the man to clutch at his side. He was still standing, however, so it wasn’t particularly a win.

 

_ Jesus, this is easy. _ "Don't. Fucking. MOVE." Queen shouted, firing off another shot for good measure. The report of the gun was followed by a sharp  _ crack _ , causing her jaw to nearly drop to the floor. The bullet had punched through the guard’s ceramic trauma plating, leaving him writhing on the ground. The remaining guard froze with his hands up, probably a smart move.

 

Carver was still working, hacking at the undercarriage with all of his lizardy might. Tremor, however, was already growing bored. He was shouting and screaming things that didn’t sound like words; typical Tremor behavior. In his frenzy, he fired off a shot in Queen’s general direction. Due to his crap aim, it just whizzed past her shoulder. Even though she hadn’t been hit, she still nearly pissed herself from the fear.

 

"What the FUCK, boss? You coulda killed me!" The remaining guy was still standing there, watching as this coke-fueled shitshow went down. Queen walked over to him, hoping to knock him unconscious by pistol-whipping him in the face. She put as much force into it as she could, but he simply grunted. She could hear Shades’ voice echo in the back of her head.  _ ‘You’re a sixteen year old girl, what did you expect?’ _

 

"How you doing there, Carver?" Queen’s eyes were darting around, her entire demeanor getting nervous and dodgy. She wanted to get the goods and get out fast. There had been gunshots and they were taking forever, the Protectorate was bound to show up sooner or later.

 

“There’ss a problem.” Carver said, still hacking at the truck. “Reinforssed ssteel platess.”

 

“Can you get through them?” She asked, her hands now jittering. 

 

“Yess, but it’ll be a moment.” Tremor responded to this by firing another round with more incoherent screeching. This bullet missed farther away from Queen, but didn’t make her any less annoyed.

 

"Put the damn gun down! Jesus FUCK." She was incredibly antsy, especially with the boss being a  _ fuck _ . Queen let out an exasperated huff, walking towards Carver with a frown. "Carver, out of the way. I'm gonna crack this fucker like an egg. Take care of the last bitch over here for me."

 

She got a running start, and shot up into the air. There was a resounding  _ crack _ that stung Queen’s eardrums, and suddenly she found herself knocked flat to the pavement faster than she had ever gone before. She stared up in a daze, her vision doubling over as she tried to identify the woman whose foot was on her chest. 

 

_ Well, shit. Jetstream is here. _ "Damnit." Queen muttered. "Fuck, fuck, SHIT. Get your goddamn foot OFF of me." She had almost been shot twice that night and now the fucking  _ Protectorate  _ was there. Things were getting worse and worse and all she wanted to do was fucking wring Tremor’s neck. 

 

Queen was still pinned when shards of rubble around them began to rise in the air. Her eyes went wide, her heart racing.  _ Oh shit. Tremor, what are you doing? _ She slammed her eyes shut, covering them with her arm to shield them from any danger. Shrapnel exploded all around them, peppering Jetstream in several places in the chest. Queen’s legs were hit in a few spots, but her costume took the brunt of the damage. It didn’t feel  _ great _ , but she wasn’t hurt. Jetstream collapsed to the ground, bleeding in several places.

 

"Tremor, I don't know whether to hug you or to strangle you." She pulled herself to her feet, wiping a smear of dirt off of her freckled face with a scowl.  _ Fuck that Protectorate bitch _ . Queen pointed to Tremor and shouted, "Take care of her.” before bursting back into the air. Jetstream struggled off of the ground, pulling herself up with an audible growl.

 

"Oh no you don't," She burst into the air after Queen, the telltale  _ crack _ of her taking off startling the young cape once again. Queen moved to catch her, but the hero slammed right into her side. Jetstream latched onto Queen, pulling them up higher and higher into the air.

 

"Leave me alone you BITCH." Imogen snarled, all the while trying to direct the fight to the ground. She knew that slamming Jetstream into the pavement would definitely mess her up, and it would kick up enough rubble that Tremor could finish her off. The plan was going quite awry though, Jetstream catching the villain in an uppercut to fling them higher, higher into the air. It was making Queen a little sick– it was higher than she had ever flown before.

 

Jetstream began pounding Queen in the knee with her own knee, twisting it uncomfortably. It seemed like she was going  _ too _ hard on someone who was visibly  _ young _ . "For fuck's sake." She cried out, struggling and struggling to bring her hand to the holster on the side of her costume. The wind was rushing around them, making it a bit harder than usual, but Imogen managed to get an opening. She drew and shot in one fluid motion, the gun’s report echoing in the air.

 

It seemed like it time slowed down in front of her– Queen barely realized what had happened until it was too late. The hero was in front of her, eyes wide with panic, blood trickling from her mouth. The wound was in her chest, placed perfectly on the left side. “Oh shit…” Imogen muttered, before everything sped back up again and the hero began plummeting down to Earth like a stone.

 

“Shit, shit, shit.” Queen screamed. She had good reason. She had just  _ killed _ Jetstream. A  _ Protectorate hero _ . “Fuck, fuck fuck.” In her panic, she managed to catch the fallen hero in her arms. She didn’t know how to fix this, hell… she couldn’t even tell if she was  _ breathing _ . Actually, the more that she thought about it… Queen could barely tell if she herself was breathing. There was blood everywhere, so much that the smell of it was invading her nostrils and making her want to puke. 

 

Imogen dropped the hero and then took off again into the night. The Cleveland Protectorate didn’t have any other fliers that she was aware of. As long as she stayed up there she would be safe.

 

Out of the corner of her eye she spotted another one of the Protectorate capes, Valiant. One of his spectral warriors had interposed itself to the injured Jetstream. It arrested her fall and lowered her gently to the ground, avoiding the resulting splat that would have happened had he not been there. She hovered in the air, suspended in the translucent ghost while a crimson stain spread through her costume.

 

_ I’m just a kid I’m just a kid. This is fucked up _ . She felt like she was going to throw up, no. She  _ knew _ she was going to throw up. The all-too-familiar coppery taste was enveloping her mouth, making her swallow over and over again. It was coming, it was just a matter of  _ when _ . Imogen considered flying to Shades’ car, but her costume was too noticeable even with the lights flipped off. All it would do is start a car chase, one that they might not win.

 

As Queen flew away, she saw Valiant’s ghost float Jetstream away towards the Protectorate HQ. The sight left her almost numb, her thoughts racing so fast that she couldn’t even comprehend what was going on.  _ I just killed Jetstream. Shot her point blank in the heart and she’s dead and I’m going to the Birdcage and my life is over _ . She began to cry heavily, her sobs getting lost in the night air. It wasn’t tough or badass, but Imogen didn’t care. She was a scared kid, one that had gotten in way over her head.

 

She hovered down to the roof of an office building, managing not to punch through it, and fell down to her knees. The entire contents of her stomach emptied out onto the concrete, leaving her heaving until she was only coughing up bitter mouthfuls of bile. Imogen stayed there for a while, curling up with her knees to her chest as more and more tears ran down her face. Occasionally she would stare at her hands or the gun in horror, a grim reminder of what she had done.

 

After what felt like forever, she felt coherent enough to phone someone to pick her up. She slipped her iPhone out of its padded pocket and scrolled through her contacts until she found Shades’. She slammed her thumb down on the screen, waiting for the ringing to start.  _ Fuck, fuck, fuck. I killed Jetstream, she’s dead, Shades pick up _ . Queen didn’t want anyone to think she had abandoned them. Hell, she didn’t even know what happened to the other Devils. After what seemed like forever and a half, the phone clicked to life.

 

"What the FUCK just happened out there, kid?" Shades was angry. Just the tone of his voice made her want to puke again, her hands shaking heavily. She almost dropped the phone a few times as she tried to keep it steady to her ear.

 

"I don't know! I just. She was on me and I panicked and I pulled the gun. I don't want to go to jail. I don't want to go to the birdcage. I let everyone down and I killed her she's DEAD, Shades." Imogen was hyperventilating, rocking back and forth alone on the roof with a pile of her own sick.

 

"Breathe, kid, breathe. Holy shit."

 

"I can't breathe, I just murdered a Protectorate cape!" She paused, hoping that bile wouldn't creep back up her throat. "Shit, Shades. What the fuck do I do? And I left everyone else. I ran. Flew. But you know what I fucking mean!"

 

"I.. shit." His voice cracked slightly. "I don't fuckin' know, kid."

 

"It's my fault if they're getting their asses beat. This is all my fault and she's  _ DEAD _ . This isn't. This isn't like when we took out Erupción. Shit, she's  _ Protectorate _ ." She paused again, her voice cracking into a loud sob. "Shades, I'm scared."

 

"Look, kid, we're fine. Valiant grabbed Jets and bugged out, we made it out fine." He stopped, taking a deep breath. Imogen had the ability to be quite melodramatic, but he had heard the gunshot, he had seen the aftermath. "You sure she's dead?"

 

"Point blank to the heart. I don't think she was breathing but I don't fucking know. Fuck. Can you come get me? I know you're not my dad and you're not my chauffeur but,” Queen choked out another sob, which led into a long coughing fit. “Shit. Shit, shit FUCK."

 

A concerned sigh came from the other end. "Yeah, sure. Where are you?"

 

“I’m on that building… near that restaurant with the shitty bread? The tall one.” 

 

“Got it. Be there soon.” He hung up the phone, leaving Imogen alone with her thoughts. She decided to stay on the roof– no point in exposing herself at ground level before she had to. It wasn’t long before she heard a car drive by. It was Shades’ personal vehicle, making her sigh in relief. She lowered herself to the ground and slipped into the car as quickly as she could, the whole thing still not feeling quite real.

 

In the car, Imogen stripped herself of her mask and diadem before going to work unzipping as much of the costume as she could. She had a sports bra and a pair of spandex compression shorts on underneath so it wasn’t completely indecent, she just wanted to get the stench of blood off of her skin. It was taking everything in her to not puke in Shades’ car, the motion of the road making her even more sick to her stomach. With her mask off, Shades could tell just how much she had been crying. Her eyes were red and puffy, her nose sniffly and dripping. 

 

“I fucked up.”

 

"Can't argue with you there, kid." Shades sighed as he turned a corner, swearing under his breath when they hit a red light. "What're you gonna do about it? Hold your wrists out to the PRT, get on your knees and cry?"

 

“They won’t fuckin’ care.”

 

"Go on the run? Maybe you're too much a small fry for them to hunt you down, but livin' like that ain't easy." He reached his arm over to pat her on the back, even though he knew it wasn’t helping much.

 

"I don't know. I don't know what to do. I can't go to the PRT. That's birdcage level shit. This is why I didn't want to fuck with the Protectorate. I knew bad shit would happen." Queen ran a hand through her hair, even though it was tangled and matted with dirt and sweat and  _ oh god _ hopefully not blood. The light changed, allowing them to start moving again. 

 

"But I can't run either. Shit, Shades. Shit, shit shit." Imogen began digging around the car, hoping to find a cigarette or some pills or  _ something _ to take the edge off. Her search turned up dry, leaving her quivering in her seat again. "Did the boss... say anything?"

 

"The boss was too jacked up to say anything useful," he grumbled. "Did you learn your lesson about getting fucked up before getting into a big fight?" Shades was trying his hardest to remain calm for her, but it was getting harder and harder.

 

"It wasn't the drugs. She was ON me. There was nothing else I could do Shades, unless I wanted to get ass fucked by the Protectorate!”

 

"Christ, Queen, she wasn't going to wreck you that hard. It's the villains who play hardball - a stay in the slammer, hell, maybe even juvie, until me and the boss break you out, it woulda been fine." He was gripping the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles were turning white. 

 

This was partially his fault.  _ He _ gave her the gun.  _ He _ had been enabling her drug habit.  _ He _ shouldn’t have let her take the coke from Tremor. He shouldn’t have done any of those things and yet he did. Now she was sitting in his passenger’s seat with a hero’s blood on her hands. "You freaked the fuck out and you fucked up bigtime."

 

"You wouldn't have been able to get me out. I'm a runaway with prior drug offenses. Shit, they'd send me back to rehab or to my parents or something. Even if they locked me up, I wouldn't last long in there.” Imogen put her head in her hands with a loud sigh. “I don't know. I panicked. Now I have to fuckin deal with it."

 

"They wouldn'ta known your civilian identity, dumbass! There are laws for that kind of shit! Ugh.” 

 

"Still. If I turn myself in I'm fucked. If I don't turn myself in I'm fucked. I should probably lay low for a bit. Fuck Fuck FUCK." She bit down on her lip, chewing so hard that she tasted blood. It hurt, sure, but it was better than the sick feeling she had in her stomach.

 

"Keep your head down, yeah, but if Jetstream really bit it, the Protectorate's gonna turn the heat way the fuck up on us." Shades swallowed hard, peering off to the side at the sobbing teen in his car. "And if it's between not getting the gang torn up to pieces or showing you the door... well, let's hope it doesn't come to that."

 

"If she did bite it, it'll be on the news soon enough." Another tear rolled down Imogen’s face as she stared out the car’s window, watching the city go by. She had barely been there– barely started and now her journey was nearly over. The gun was still sitting on the floor of the car, a grim reminder of the things she had done. A wave of nausea rolled over her, the stench of blood still stuck in her nose, causing her to choke on her words. "I. I'm really sorry."

 

"Sorry don't fix a lot of things, kid. I'm sorry I didn't go with my gut and not give you the gun, but it's too late to piss myself over that little mistake." His voice was grim and somber, he really was kicking himself. Shades kept his jaw clenched as he pulled into the lot of the base, his whole body tense. He put the car in park, but didn’t cut off the engine just yet. The last lingering notes of some too-cheery pop song hung in the air, making it seem for just a moment that their shit wasn’t incredibly  _ fucked _ .

 

"Get cleaned up and get some sleep, if you can. We're gonna be sitting on our thumbs until we hear the news about Jetstream." He finally shut off the car after what seemed like forever, collecting the gun from his floorboards just so that she wouldn’t have to touch it. It felt strange in his hands, alien and heavier than he remembered it. 

 

Imogen followed him out, walking upstairs in a robotic haze. Shades was eerily silent the entire way, at least until they got back into the apartment. He walked straight to his bedroom and slammed the door behind him, making her nearly jump ten feet in the air. It was loud, reminding her too much of Jetstream and gunshots and everything  _ wrong _ with that night. 

 

Now alone, Genny walked into the bathroom. She stripped off the remainder of her clothing and turned the shower on full blast. Steam quickly filled the room, nearly suffocating her with its thick mist as she climbed into the shower. The water was scalding hot, but still she didn’t think she could scrub even the tiniest amount of guilt off of her skin. It stung and burn but, hell, she thought she pretty much deserved it.

 

After she finished her shower, she redressed herself in a pair of pajama pants and an oversized t-shirt. Both items were too big for her and hung on her emaciated body awkwardly, but they were the comfiest items that she owed. It wasn’t much, but it helped a little bit. 

 

She crawled into bed, pulling her covers over her head to try to block out as much of the world as possible, and closed her eyes. No matter how much she tried, though, sleep wasn’t coming. She shot her hand out from the mountain of blankets and pulled on the string hanging from her bedside lamp. The light was a bitter assault on her eyes, but it illuminated enough of the room for her to crawl back out of bed. 

 

Imogen searched the room, digging through drawers and knocking over neatly stacked boxes to try to find  _ something _ that would help her sleep. However, there was nothing in her arsenal that would do even the slightest thing to calm her mind. She rifled through the box that contained her stash, finding a bag of speed tabs, an empty baggie with a film of white powder on the inside, and a half-empty bottle of ibuprofen. 

 

_ I could just knock back the rest of those. That counts as sleep, right? _ “Fucking  _ shit _ !” Imogen screamed, kicking the side of her dresser over and over again. Sleeping wasn’t going to happen, she knew that. Every time she closed her eyes she saw Jetstream’s face, the way her eyes looked and the way blood leaked out of her mouth. Queen threw herself back down on the bed, pulling her phone off of the nightstand to start scrolling idly through news sites.

 

The headlines read - "Jetstream in critical condition in Cleveland ICU, under care of local rogue The Good King." and Imogen breathed the longest sigh of relief. She wasn’t out of the woods yet, but holy  _ shit _ . Critical condition was a lot better than fucking  _ dead _ . Still, she pulled up another tab on the phone’s browser with a Google search for the number for the Cleveland PRT. Maybe turning herself in  _ was _ the best option… Or maybe Jetstream would pull through. Maybe one day everyone would sit around and laugh about it like a distant memory.

 

_ Fuck, Genny. That's not going to happen and you know it. _ She crashed backwards on the bed, another exasperated scream escaping her lips. Imogen–  _ Genny _ pulled a pillow over her face, silently hoping that it would just fucking suffocate her.  _ No dice. _

 

She got up from bed once more, but this time she slipped on a pair of Ugg boots and headed out the door. Genny took the stairs down to the basement, measuring the amount of vigor she put into every footfall in order to not alert anyone to her presence, but paused in front of the door. Her hand hovered over the knob, though she wasn’t sure if she was welcome to open it. After a sharp deep breath in, she opened the door and walked inside. She tiptoed a few feet towards the small light glowing in the back of the room, holding her breath until all the lights flickered on. 

 

Quickfix was sitting at his bench, and if Genny hadn’t watched him turn on the lights she wouldn’t even think he was awake. He was wearing his goggles, obscuring his eyes from her, and he was almost dead still while he looked over some of his notes. She nearly turned to leave the room, not wanting to disturb him, but it was too late. 

 

“Can’t sleep?” He asked her, and she could only nod her head in response. Quickfix sighed in response, pushing himself away from the workbench on his rolling chair. He rose slowly, looking similarly exhausted. “Come.” She took one step towards him, then paused. Her heart was racing and she still wasn’t sure that she should even be down there. The cape pulled his goggles up, giving the girl a small, sympathetic smile. 

 

“I don’t know…” Genny sighed and put her head in her hands again. “I just keep seeing her fuckin’ face, Quix. I want to… I want to feel  _ nothing _ . It’s all too much!” She let out one sob, then another, and before she could stop herself the tears wouldn’t stop coming. Quickfix nodded and took a few steps towards the crying girl. 

 

“I got just the thing.” She looked up at him, though he had walked off towards the storage closet. Imogen was curious, as the only thing that they kept in that closet was… Her eyes grew wide as Quickfix walked back over, carrying a black zipper pouch in his hands. He sat back down at his bench and waved her over. There was another chair nearby, but not near close enough. She dragged it over with her and plopped down in it, her heart racing out of her chest.

 

Quickfix unzipped the bag and stuck his hand inside, fishing around inside until he found what he needed. He pulled out a syringe wrapped in sterile plastic packaging, giving Genny the first clue as to what his solution to her problem was. The syringe was followed by a spoon, a wad of cotton, a hot pink shoelace, and finally…

 

“Heroin?” She looked up at him with a serious expression. Sure, she had snorted nearly everything under the sun, rolled on Molly, and smoked her fair share of pot but… Heroin. That was a whole different ballgame. 

 

“Trust me, kid. It’ll make you feel better.” He motioned for her to hand him her arm and after a moment of hesitation, she agreed. Her skin was pale white and ice-cold to the touch, and  _ damnit _ Quickfix could barely get over how sickly-thin her arm was. How on Earth she managed to get to this point was a complete mystery to him, but that really wasn’t any of his business. He went to work quickly, explaining each step to her so that she could do it herself the next time. 

 

“That doesn’t look like a lot.” She said as he loaded the spoon up. The comment made Quickfix raise an eyebrow, and he shook his head at her.

 

“It’s plenty if you don’t want to fuckin’  _ die _ . Be careful with it. Shit can go real bad real fast.” That didn’t make her feel any better, but she figured that he knew what he was doing. Quickfix tied the pink shoelace around her bicep, pulling it so tight that it was uncomfortable. Genny was staring at the crook of her elbow, her hands starting to shake from nerves and anticipation. He slapped her skin a few times, though not hard enough to harm her, then frowned. 

 

“Jesus, your veins are small.” The cape mumbled under his breath as he wiped the skin down with a piece of gauze soaked in rubbing alcohol. Sure, they were doing intravenous drugs but he didn’t want to be responsible for her arm rotting off from a staph infection. She was nervous, that was for damn sure. Genny never really had strong feelings either way for needles, but it was still incredibly intimidating. 

 

“Go for the sides?” Her voice was barely more than a squeak; she wasn’t even sure that Quickfix had heard it. Sure enough, though, the vein on the outside of her arm held more promise. “That’s where they go if I get blood drawn.”

 

“Works.” Quickfix shrugged, then picked the loaded syringe up. “You ready?” 

 

She wasn’t, but she nodded anyway. Genny flinched as the needle pierced her skin, but as soon as he pushed down the plunger the anxiety was gone. Holy  _ shit _ she felt good. It wasn’t like a coke or speed high, where she felt invincible and ready to take on the world. This was more like a warm hug from someone you love, like a familiar embrace. It seeped over her and cleared her mind. She knew that she had done a bad thing but  _ wow _ she did not care. 

 

Quickfix slapped a band-aid on the injection site and untied the shoelace. His work was done now. He zipped the bag back up, then watched as Queen wandered over to the lumpy couch. She sat down slowly, but every second she was closer and closer to tipping over. At least she would get some sleep. He yawned, finally accepting that fatigue was soon going to claim him too. 

 

“Come on, kiddo.” Queen didn’t use actual words to reply to him, instead she grunted and moaned something that vaguely got across the message that she was tired. The tinker rolled his eyes, though he had expected this before he had even pulled his bag of tricks out. He scooped her up into his arms, walking back over towards the staircase. “Let’s bring you back home.” 

 

Marc Patterson had been pacing around his bedroom when he heard a knock on his front door. He slowly emerged, his body tense from the worrying and planning he had been doing. It was late at night– hell, he didn’t even have his glasses on when he pulled the front door open. There stood Quickfix, holding a sleeping Queen in his arms. Marc didn’t even know that she had snuck out.  _ Guess that goes to show how good I am at my job _ . 

 

“She’s pretty fucked up.” Quickfix said, following Tremor’s lieutenant inside the apartment. 

 

“Well, yeah. But you’d be pretty fucked up if you did that, too.” 

 

“No, I mean she’s  _ fucked up _ .” The cape sighed heavily, walking at Marc’s side on the way to Queen’s bedroom. He placed her down gingerly on her bed, making sure that she was on her side, before turning back to Marc.

 

“ _ What _ ? What did she take?” He sounded angry. Angrier than someone who dealt drugs on the regular should have been about someone getting high. 

 

“A tiny bit of smack. But she’s fine. She just wanted to fucking sleep.”

 

“Give her a goddamn Benadryl! Tell her to count sheep! You don’t give her dope for fuckin’  _ sleep problems _ .”

 

“It’s a lot more than sleep problems, and you know it. I’m Quickfix. I fixed it, and I fixed it  _ quick _ .” Quickfix sighed and shook his head, his eyelids heavy with sleep. “I’m going to bed.”

 

“Fine,” Marc snapped, watching as his comrade stomped out of the room. He waited until he heard the front door close before he spoke again. “Jackass.” Queen seemed to be doing okay, snoozing away on top of the covers, but he didn’t fully trust Quickfix’s judgement. 

 

He got up and grabbed another blanket, one that had fallen on the floor and was never picked up, and tossed it over the sleeping girl. She’d bitch and moan in the morning if she had been too cold overnight. Marc turned off the light on his way out, but set an alarm on his phone so he would remember to check on her. 

  
“Hope this turns out okay, kid," he said, before closing the door behind him.


	14. PHO

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♦  **Topic: Jetstream Shot In Dust Devils Altercation  
** **** **In: Boards ► Places ► America ► Cleveland**  
ChimeChronicler (Original Poster) (Local)  
Posted on October 18th, 2009:

The  **Dust Devils** hit an armored van today for cash.  **Amphetamine Queen** toppled the vehicle, but  **Jetstream** showed up and engaged, with  **Valiant** as backup. Before he was able to get to the scene, Amphetamine Queen fought Jetstream in aerial combat, but when she lost the upper hand and Jetstream tried to bring her back to ground, she shot Jetstream point-blank in the chest with a handgun and fled.

[ **[EMBEDDED VIDEO NOT SUPPORTED BY YOUR CLIENT]** ](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1RF5wu0kZkmxCbK_Muqk8ac4lp4Mp1Yp77z4wX2aBQII/edit)

  
I’ve tried to maintain an image of impartiality, reporting on the Cleveland cape scene, but… seriously? What the FUCK?

**(Showing page 8 of 9)**

 

►  **P.R.E.S.S.I.E.**  (Local)  
Replied on October 18th, 2009:

Has it even been two weeks since the Dust Devils got here?

**EDIT:** Here’re the threads for two previous DD events in Cleveland.

**Dust Devils vs. Protectorate**

**Dust Devils vs. Borgata**

 

**► **CptFrog****  
Replied on October 18th, 2009:

Shit, you often hear stuff like “guns are the best superpower” but it’s not like you actually expect them to work well against parahumans. This feel so wrong…

 

**► **TurnipUp****  
Replied on October 18th, 2009:

i want to be optimistic, but there’s no way that she got medical attention before she bled out. don’t get your hopes up guys.

 

**► **TeaBag****  
Replied on October 18th, 2009:

This girl looks young. There’s a good chance she was just following orders! Leave her alone, Cleveland isn’t THAT bad.

 

**► **Squawker****  
Replied on October 18th, 2009:

I like the part where Jetstream wile e coyotes there for a bit.

**[USER RECEIVED AN INFRACTION FOR THIS POST]**

 

**► **UltraG****  
Replied on October 18th, 2009:

Queen takes Knight. Your move, PRT.

 

**►  HugCircle**  
Replied on October 18th, 2009:

It is kind of weird that this doesn't happen more.

EDIT: I'm not saying that it SHOULD happen more. Jesus.

 

**► **Super8****  
Replied on October 18th, 2009:

_ Hugcircle said: _

It is kind of weird that this doesn't happen more.  
  
---  
  
Usually you see it with assholes who used all their strikes up and are headed for the Birdcage. Or crazies who burn out quickly.

 

**►  KnifeCat**  
Replied on October 18th, 2009:

_ Super8 said: _

Usually you see it with assholes who used all their strikes up and are headed for the Birdcage. Or crazies who burn out quickly.  
  
---  
  
Start taking bets. Is she an asshole, or is she a crazy? 

  
My money’s on the asshole. Birdcage! Birdcage! BIRDCAGE!

 

**► **Cylinders****  
Replied on October 18th, 2009:

_ ChimeChronicler wrote: _

I’ve tried to maintain an image of impartiality, reporting on the Cleveland cape scene, but… seriously? What the FUCK?  
  
---  
  
  
Super Meth. Not even once.

 

**► **nicenihilist****  
Replied on October 18th, 2009:

In b4 someone speculates that AQ might be on drugs. With a name like that, what are the odds she  **WASN’T** ?

 

**► **Thunderfeet****  
Replied on October 18th, 2009:

Now there's no excuse to not wipe those fuckers off the face of Cleveland.

 

**► **JackofClubs****  
Replied on October 18th, 2009:

I wouldn’t say that. Look at how Jetstream escalates the situation. Pretty scummy. Plus, isn’t she known for going ham on villains? I’m not saying shooting her was right but, damn.

 

**► **blackparade****  
Replied on October 18th, 2009:

How old is she anyway?

 

**► **Queenrook****  
Replied on October 18th, 2009:

Did you see what she did to that truck? It is possible that the gun was the less lethal option.

Powers are fucking scary.

EDIT: No I am not Amphetamine Queen stop PMing me

 

**► **soup_pelt****  
Replied on October 18th, 2009:

@ **Squawker**

I should not have laughed as much as I did. I hate you.

 

**► **Viceroy Vector**** (Local) (Ohio Cape Junkie)  
Replied on October 18th, 2009:

Cross-posting from the Akron sub for data about the Dust Devils, I’ve also done you all the favour of bulking out the DD wiki page with some information. I know citing threads is poor form, but hearsay trumps complete and utter lack of knowledge.

Here’s what I got:

**Tremor** \- Their bossman. I’d peg him as a Shaker/Blaster no higher than six in either respect. He’s a terrakinetic with weak control over chunks of rock/debris below a certain size threshold, and can detonate them at will with an effect like a fragmentation grenade. Yeah, infinite frag grenades sounds scary, but by all accounts the dude is off his fucking rocker 24/7. Check out that bit in the video OP posted where he nearly shoots his own cape. The video isn’t super high-res, but I swear there’s still coke on his nose.

**Quickfix** \- Some guy with a big-ass wrench and auto-shotgun. There’s rumors that he’s a Tinker, but I don’t buy it. He’s got literally no cool tech on him, my money’s on him just being a normal faking it to make them seem like more of a credible threat.

**Freezerburn** \- Have you seen this guy’s  **videos** ? Liquid nitrogen breath, from what it looks like. He can make the little Dippin Dots ice cream whenever he wants to. Threatwise? Nasty power, short range. I can’t see him giving anyone in the Cleveland Protectorate trouble, though I’ll admit that he could probably keep Feral down for a lot longer than most other capes.

**Carver** \- This guy’s new. Some weird knife-hand lizard-man, probably one of those mutant capes rather than a Changer? Haven’t heard of him before - he wasn’t in Freakshow last time I checked, and believe me, I checked. Still, if him cutting through that armored van is any indicator, he’s no small potatoes.

**Amphetamine Queen** \- Okay, so first of all, I love this name and hate it. It’s pretentious and trashy at the same time, and it’s  _ perfect _ . Here’s what you need to know. She seems like an Alexandria package flier by all accounts, with a specialty in crashlanding, making craters of rubble that make Tremor that much more of an issue. Not even sure if she has a soft landing option, what with the  **Spot the Pothole** thread popping up in the Akron sub and blowing up in post count. So yeah. A force multiplier for the reckless psycho Tremor, first things first, and apparently, an unstable kid with a big fucking gun. Pretty clear breach of the the unspoken hero/villain rules, IMO, you can expect the PRT to mobilize to shit down their throats before the week is over. This stunt just put the Devils at the very top of the PRT shitlist.

 

**► **the_grey_lady****  
Replied on October 18th, 2009:

I’m really worried about the direction Cleveland is going in. Shit’s been getting weird here since Iron Will bit it, and this only adds to it. I hear the PRT director is a tough cookie, so why isn’t she cracking down on all the cape violence here? I’d love to see a heavy-handed strikedown, and soon. I barely feel safe sending my kids to school these days…

 

**► **CptFrog****  
Replied on October 18th, 2009:

I’ve been watching the video over and over and… Am I the only one who noticed that after shooting Jetstream Amphetamine Queen catches her, then let her fall again and then just… hovers there? I think that might have been shock or something, Amphetamine Queen is a freaking kid, and probably on drugs, I think she didn’t realize what she was doing before that moment. Not saying she should be forgiven but… context.

I mean if she had wanted to she could have shot Valiant too, he had his back turned. She isn’t some kind of stone cold killer. A public danger, sure, but not a stone cold killer.

 

**► **TeaBag****  
Replied on October 18th, 2009:

That’s what I’m saying, CptFrog. If you listen closely, you can kind of hear what sounds like her saying “I’m fucked.” She sounds scared, too. I think she starts crying a bit before she flies off, but it’s too hard to really tell. I could just be projecting. If I did that I don’t know if I’d be able to live with myself. Have there been any sightings of her or the other Devils since the incident?

 

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